Reborn
on that slimy isle of sea and sky,
I'll bolt the door forever more.
A depth of death awaits my soul
upon the ocean floor.
The scream of salt,
and squelch,
and sea,
more chilling than the roar.
A flash of flesh
was cause enough
for terror thoughts galore.
Returned I am,
my thoughts
beholden to
this deity of lore.

When she found him,
he was a brittle bag of broken.
Drawstring taut.
Tight.
Holding thoughts that went unspoken.
Opening up isn't easy,
though they say it is in theory.
When putting it in practice,
words slowly flow uneasy.
But she found her way to his heart,
started to slowly pull it's strings.
Looser and looser.
And now his words he sings.
His spine was cracked,
so she blu-tacked it back together.
His mind, a map they scrawled
on scraps of black leather.
Bandaged his ego and plastered his past.
A perfect example of a person well matched.

My childhood was a lonely one,
sat dust-lunged in my room,
while others had fun,
I'd sit in the gloom.

Surrounded, with old books and toys,
football, at all, wasn't my thing.
Not 'one of the boys',
my own lonely king.

Ruled empires, of plastic and prose,
my imagination, sensational flights of ideas!
It actively rose,
along with my fears.

Oh! But if chance would be given,
to redo those days in new ways,
same way I'd live 'em,
in radiant haze.

Oh! The poet in me,
a werewolf is he!
He likes to come out
when the looming moon,
shines it's brightest beams,
down.
Awoooooo!
Down,
to disturb my daytime dreams.
Coaxing howls,
and whines,
injected with subjective lines;
predatory metaphor,
tapping at my chamber door!
Only hollow howls, to those
who don't hear the instinct growl
to this canine condition;
those who don't spend their days,
thinking, or wishing.
Predator of poetry,
prowling over prose.
A beast of the blue moon syndrome,
after the curtains close.

Sometimes I read poetry for a little reinforcement...
I'm not the only one with a mind like fine china.