Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Jan 2011
This morning i made you a cup of coffee before you woke up.
I wanted you to feel that i still love you as much as i did.
You ignored my coffee that was waiting for you for some sips before you left for work.

You missed the bus again.
I walked right behind you, listening to you cursing the day and your high heels.
I touched your red hair and i could not feel its softness against my skin.
You turned around and looked through me.
I knew you could feel me.
I knew you knew i was around.
But you kept walking and i heard you telling yourself to move on.

As night grows darker i feel your pain.
You cry in the dark of our room, whispering my name.
How much you miss me everyday.
Everytime you hear the sound of rain.
Everytime you see morning dew on the window...
You think of me...

I am trapped forever between the lines of universe.
I do not possess my awareness of time and space anymore.
But i still have you in my weak indistinct mind.
A ghost is all i am to you.

My love...
My vague presence is torturing me.
I can not feel the warmness of your skin anymore.
If i could travel a billion light years away to embody my presence just to touch you for the last time...
I would...

Here in the dark you linger...
Reaching out into the night...
Tracking the last drops of my last days with you...

If only you saw...
If only you heard...
If only you felt...

If only you knew...

*I am here...
As i was walking closer to the river, the fog started to cover me. I hastened away and found myself standing by the water. And i saw it....

A face...
My own reflection in the water...
It looked weary, sad and afraid...
I thought to myself 'am i?'

Then i saw another face....
Another reflection appeared vaguely...

Your face...
Your reflection in the water...
Right next to mine...

I turned around and i saw nothing but the thick cold fog approaching....

You're nothing but a memory fading away...
Still i could not take my mind off you...

I looked back and the fog had covered my sight so perfectly that i could not even see my own reflection....
 Nov 2010
Edgar Allan Poe
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
  Out of SPACE—out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead,
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,—

By the mountains—near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
By the gray woods,—by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
By the dismal tarns and pools
  Where dwell the Ghouls,—
By each spot the most unholy—
In each nook most melancholy,—

There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past—
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by—
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
For the spirit that walks in shadow
’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not—dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only.

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
 Nov 2010
Edgar Allan Poe
Dim vales—and shadowy floods—
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down—still down—and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain’s eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be—
O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea—
Over spirits on the wing—
Over every drowsy thing—
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light—
And then, how deep!—O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like—almost any thing—
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before—
Videlicet a tent—
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies,
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented thing!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.

— The End —