SCHIZOPHRENIA

17 0 0
                                    

He waits outside the polished gates,

Of marbled floors and ivory doors.

He lurks and hides beneath those bricks

Of loosing faith.

His footsteps are well-hidden;

Not a single whip of a dreary air breaks the spell.

His eyes of loose capillaries,

Those sockets of a determined fate.

He laughs, a long, wicked laugh,

Until the grumbling sound of thunder

Fades it away. In awe he stands,

Outside his home, unaware,

Of what he became.

The dreary rain washed his plans away,

And nothing left but a stale bread

To tell his vicious tale.

Collectoria PoetaWhere stories live. Discover now