Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
extasisPoems
slight music quite instrumentals slither through the space now an ethereal silence and a curled, gnarled hand rest at the table weather-worn pockmarked face twitch a common occurrence a scene worthy of a masterful painter the air sighs, not in sound but in feeling it is demure, languid, a seamless bond of hunched figure and wispy breaths a heart feels light and hollow with pulsating winds surrounding it a man's hide tingles, prickles pores gently widen in anticipation a boxed room a shackle room dark, yet for the dim lantern and a speckling of pinpoints in ever shifting pupils patterns shift with tightening skin, hackles raised billowing smoke against snarling and jolting our West is not kind a child stumbles with its chittering and chattering, back into its hole an equalizer delicately rocks upon the floor hot in its despondence and billowing smoke barrel the metal becomes cold, uncaring; what despair was impacted upon it has left, as is the same with all objects subject to human emotion Old blood sleeps in the shackled room with chattering mumbling children in their holes life is but glorious process, while we all wish for results how deplorable
0
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 4:16 PM UTC
A Deplorable Occurance
slight music quite instrumentals slither through the space now an ethereal silence and a curled, gnarled hand rest at the table weather-worn pockmarked face twitch a common occurrence a scene worthy of a masterful painter the air sighs, not in sound but in feeling it is demure, languid, a seamless bond of hunched figure and wispy breaths a heart feels light and hollow with pulsating winds surrounding it a man's hide tingles, prickles pores gently widen in anticipation a boxed room a shackle room dark, yet for the dim lantern and a speckling of pinpoints in ever shifting pupils patterns shift with tightening skin, hackles raised billowing smoke against snarling and jolting our West is not kind a child stumbles with its chittering and chattering, back into its hole an equalizer delicately rocks upon the floor hot in its despondence and billowing smoke barrel the metal becomes cold, uncaring; what despair was impacted upon it has left, as is the same with all objects subject to human emotion Old blood sleeps in the shackled room with chattering mumbling children in their holes life is but glorious process, while we all wish for results how deplorable
I had a dream where I killed myself from the perspective of my own gun. I woke up sweating at 3:48 a.m. and wrote this.
extasis
Written by
extasis
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 4:16 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem