You used to be my pink skies and cotton candy clouds but now everything is grey, rainy and miserable.
And it makes me want to cry.
We're going in a different direction now and I am not the one who pulled the steering wheel.
I no longer see my open fields flooded far and wide with cherry blossoms and all the green sparrows have flown away.
They are crying now and I can no longer hear your voice.
Instead, it is all a barren wasteland. And the sand is not even at least the beautiful orange the Sahara desert always is.
All the portraits in my castle have gone blank. The castle itself, war torn, brought down to rubble as a result of the battle I fought within myself.
I may have lost the battle but I have not yet lost the war. I hope.
Unfortunately, our worlds did not collide as subtly as I had prayed. It was a violent mishap, an event outside of time.
I sit silently and alone in the centre of my dreams as I have witnessed them being violently washed away by ocean waves with my hands tied and bound by my admiration for you.
You like beaches right? That has to mean something, maybe a reason for you to stay a little longer.
You are my Dystopia.
But dystopia is subject to interpretation.
And what is yours will never be mine and what is mine you do not even want at all.
My dystopia sounds like it belongs in a book, but we all know how long that lasts.
*Be sure to check out Utopian Dystopia Pt. 1!
Pt. 2 of a story I did not know I began writing.
Over on the crescent wing
The bitter gales bring waves of rain:
Listen. Frozen windows sing.
Enraptured by the searing pain
Like pestilence in hurricane.
Buildings rise up to the halls
As summer lost, and spring withal.
Then the writhing storm-clouds bring
A storm of ice and wind again:
The sun rears up, but sets during.
And past the steel-laden plane
Silver orbs first wax, then wane
Then plaster to the mighty wall
Midnight buses, lane-by-lane,
Of nature not, but city fool.
Ascended like a spiteful King
The whispers rise, then sink in shame
No sound is here, no, not a thing.
Soaking in like liquor-stains
The buildings survey their domain
Not city-life, nor life at all;
They wander in the pouring rain
Where love is lost beneath the sprawl.
Tears and laughter, much the same
All are whispers, doomed to fall.
Dystopia without a name:
Not so distant after all.
A poem about the modern age.
#9 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.
© Lewis Hyden, 2018
main road dusk
you in that dress
rain against glass
tell me everything.
in the house of silhouettes
there must be some light
the people are blind,
and they dance, but they bite.
in the house of silhouettes
there must be a monarchy
the wonder of a century
is breathing, feverishly.
for the smallest parts of me
that you took when you left
my innocent love
ripped from my mind and bereft:
i mourn the glimmers of freshness
new, like the morning
Replaced by the doubts
Feeding and gnawing
Less innocence love
I soldier on to the upcoming dawning.
rip me to pieces and break me apart
I will soldier on and heal my own heart
My wings were clipped the day I was born
I was put under the pressure of a billion eyes
My dreams ripped my skies torn
My life was built on a faithful lie
The shadows of my imagination
feared the glare of their expectations
My broken bones, My shattered heart
Sang the stories of me being torn apart
Vestal white roses,
Shed their serrated surface,
Then tainted in red.
A Greek goddess, love, roses, and blood.