The waking hours of the night produce;
Soft taps of unturned faucets,
Gentle touches from moonbeams,
And the whistling wind.
Puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks
Vibrant under the late hours.
The gentle pat, pat, pat after the sobs
Driving one to madness.
Or deeper into the dark.
The pooling light far out of reach.
He's home alone.
No one to catch him.
To bring him back to the light.
A child of the night.
Whispering breezes coaxing him further out.
Window open, drapes grasping towards him.
Grabbing for the physical form.
Long lost to the whispers
No one else heard.
For he was only a Painted Personality
In the sun lite hours.
The hours of living in the sun;
Pounding of the lively rooms,
The blazing hold from sundogs,
The cheering calls of blue jays.
Wide smiles and joyful eyes,
Shining in the morning dew.
Bang, Bang, Bang. The presence of others.
Bringing one to sanity.
Further to the light.
The consuming sun pouring into everything.
He has others around him.
Everyone to save him.
From the darkness formed.
A child wishing for the day.
Singing birds, patiently waiting for returns.
Outside, sweet odors drifting by,
Asking for his attention.
Brought by the cheering calls.
Everyone heard the peace.
For he was only true to himself
In the moon kissed hours.
YOU ARE READING
Kaazul Work: Poems/Scripts/Short Stories
SonstigesThese are a compilation of things I've personally writing that really do not fit in any of my other stories. Ranging from poetry to short plays all the way to short stories.
