A collage of imaginary conversations,
A microscopic memory,
Fleeting moments of quintessential smiles,
Flawed folds.
Smaller and smaller,
Compressed into shapes moulded by others,
She dreamed of creaseless paper,
Of a clean slate.
She was stuck in a wormhole,
A loop of never ending day dreams,
She stood amidst the roar,
Of a tormented shore.
Alice was saner than she,
The ominous twins of yore and doom haunted her,
They slit every throat,
The ghost of the present.
Her heart was adobe,
A gauntlet of shattered trust,
Each shimmering spirit left an imprint,
Each hand a mark.
Eliot was right,
So was Poe,
It's a dream within a dream,
A wasteland for hope.
The merciless waves swept over her cold heart,
The mermaids sang a ballad,
Though not for her,
They sang only to lure.
The last of her Cheshire cat impression,
Burned to ashes,
In the roaring furnace of the earth,
As she awaited the crying of her mirth.
YOU ARE READING
Yellow Paint
Poetry"Yellow Paint" is a collection of my experiences with the turbulence of everyday teenage life in the form of poetry, random thoughts and rants. The name comes from a rumour involving Van Gogh, which says that he used to eat yellow paint because he...
