She's watching inside a cinema,
Chronicling her visions from a
Compilation piece,
Built in mental murals
Motion pictures can drag for hours,
But it doesn't tower
All that thirst inside a cinephile,
Quenched by her sequels
Every spring and summertime,
Is the perfect moment for the cinephile
To make it like the movies
She tracks meticulously
Skating down the ice rink,
Like her gliding digital ink
For the foreground sketch
And cinematography
It's zooming in on the swings,
Her childhood best friend grinning
Tea parties above
Their tree house
Dressing up their dolls for the annual ball,
Time for the camera to roll
Build pillow forts at midnight,
Whisper scary stories with the owls
All the soundtrack and scores,
All settled and tendered at her innermost core
Not all from the audience can really grasp
A tinge of deja vu
From collective memories and homages
That builds the archways and bridges
For her best film ever produced
About late nights and indie youth
Because she's the director,
They're all actors
Burst out
From her screenplay page
When the pictures' finished,
They all end up in credits
Where she writes down
All their names
So if one day her camera's buried,
Her legacy is sturdy
Even if it's not imprinted
In museum paintings
The characters all breathe,
In relatable and unforgettable feats
Marked by a passing date
In vintage color grading
YOU ARE READING
Graveyard of Reveries
Poetry"Dig all the gravestones if you can Have a wonderful night in this rotting land A rollercoaster ride in dark fantasy Welcome to my graveyard of reveries" A random collection of poems written by a mentally unstable 17-year-old. pls be nice :) COVER B...
