It is dusk.
In the night, as the dream shadows take you,
and the sun's halo fades,
when murky leaves fall, from
bare, black branches, and
the nightmares come out.
When the wind screeches,
and clouds blot out the moon,
darkness surrounding,
then they come.
Dirty orange, like a dying Autumn,
a rustling of leaves,
a flicker of fear,
a gaping mouth,
a silent scream.
The wind is an eerie whisper
in the twilight.
A blur of colour in the swaying grass,
a flash of orange, fleeting and swift,
ghosts of candleflames, of summer.
Rough, rusty, red,
sly, sleek, slipping through
the shadows as we sleep;
waiting, to
POUNCE!
A dirty rag,
dipped in amber,
crumpled, torn, broken,
wrought in madness,
in the deep dark.
Dishevelled and tossed on the road side.
Amber eyed;
foxes.
And then, as the dawn comes,
they are gone.
(I just realised that this is one of my first poems that wasn't a terribad acrostic. D:)
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Poem dump
PoetryA bunch of poems about things. Sometimes sciency things, because I sure love SCIENCE.
