Melodies are galleries of imagination,
Passion, weaved in potpurries of rhythmic sensation,
The juicy journey of chronic chaos
Clouds up my notions, coaxes and wheedles my emotions;
A leaf-strewn pathway, hewn with memories swept aside,
The cages of my ages ruffle as pages nuzzle my sighs,
I have to admit, never have I had it so nostalgic,
It's hard to imagine how music revisits the magic,
A flickering lamp, sets up camp, in rule of his pool of yellow,
My mind has finally left behind, all reminders of sorrow,
Eyes closed, hands crossed, I exhaust my lids to the frost and the crooning cello,
That sings and brings back things I lost; and smiles and awkward hellos.
And as I sleep, unseen, serene, conveniently incognizant,
I suddenly breathe in things unclean, I taste anti-depressants,
A gasp unclasps my lips and out splashes the blissful lie
The melody stops, the past fades out, and I open an eye.
The present repels with its drab ongoings
The future terrifies with its murky misgivings
The past is all that beckons me
Through my darkest melodies.
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Poetry[On hold] Key: |Straight Brackets| - Poetry. \Tilted Brackets/ - Passionate, Vaguely Poetic Prose or Free Verse. ~Wave Brackets~ - Poetry specifically between 1 and 3 sentences in length. ☆☆ For everyone, Who finds, Not in a graveyard or cretamorium...
