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Breadth of the summer's call,
Whisper your trying tales.

May yet I sit and wail,
At this season's juxtaposed quall.

Even though, be it over,
It's leeching tendrils reach as far,
As the wind hung sail,
To only fly me closer,
To this young mind's veil.
With these unknowns
These powder bones
Slip across't each other
Just to miss their mark.

Ready for the coming seasons
In no particular order
The sun comes up at different times of day.

The moon really is my best friend anyway
Because you're the one who watches over my dreams every day.

Apparently the thoughtfulness that I escribe
Unto these phantom pages coule magnificence readyness.
But they're kind of just random mots that somehow convey the way I feel at the time.
It doesn't even have to make sense.
But it always does in the end.

Au revoir
Makayla Jane Feb 2019
He smelled of a bonfire;
Burnt wood and charcoal ashes
With a hint of a dewy forest musk

Why must it be him?
Where have you gone?
Feel free to share revision ideas :)
zero Feb 2019
i sit and I ache
waiting for something to happen.
for anything to happen.
sometimes I wake up and the
room is spinning
and there's something in the
corner
of my
room
send someone
anyone
i just want to experience
something
warm
agai
n
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018


~
The sweetness of success and
the salt of regret,
I will let them ride and glide
on paper wings
~


Ink flowing...
Pagan Paul Aug 2018
.
Its 2 am and I am so wired.
Why can't I just be normally tired?
As others enjoy some restful sleep,
I am in a place far more deep.....

And the abyss calls so inviting,
          a leap into the unknown and beyond.
With clarity I jump out and fly,
          an excuse for reality to quietly abscond.

Psychedelic nausea as the dimensions twist,
forcing me to a place where I do not exist,
a land in which I may be killed or kissed,
but certain my presence would not be missed.

The feelers take a hold of me,
     whispering secrets of antiquity,
revealing images of aeons gone,
     in spoken word, rhyme and song.
I have the histories of many worlds
     all in my mind strung up like pearls.
A line of lanterns alight once more,
     open and willing for me to explore.
And my pale blue eyes no longer see
     the images created by any reality.

It is secret knowledge of ancient times,
I receive in the script of cryptic rhymes.


© Pagan Paul (09/08/18)
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