The Poetry Marathon

Haunted memories from a

lonely childhood.

The sadness carves out a hole in your body

for roses to grow

and petals to fall.

Secret pages with golden letters

folded neatly;

brittle and cream-coloured, whispy clouds

hidden beneath the moss.

Remnants of shattered pieces

in everchanging eeriness.

Eerie days and cotton clouds

fields of green and flowers.

I dream my days away, eagerly waiting for the night.

Spending restless hours

looking for the sun.

When the only thing that matters

is the fleeing darkness, giving way.

For golden drops of morning dew.

Purring, meowing.

Little ball of love.

Soft paws and twirling tail.

Little ball of love.

Futile and desperate attempts

to convey this feeling in my chest

how all that matters is a

little ball of lovely fur.

I want to drown in the colours of your soul as

Crystallized water embellish your skin,

tiny pearls of shiver trickling down your spine.

This human suit of flesh and blood no longer serves it purpose.

The crippling fear turning sighs into a howl; with skin too tight,

eyeball crawling out from its socket.

I wonder if you ever saw me in scorching daylight?

Troll-like features, glued together in an order without logic.

Dots and specks of flaming red breaking the symmetry

of feverish yellow hue.

I spoke to him of gentle ways,

how one can treat it

almost like an illness.

The frenzy turmoil and hollow

insides,

as a joke between gods and humans.

“Spirits begone, the Anthesteria is over!”

Acroplis soaked in blood.

Let the games begin.

As an old soul

in a young body

I seldom find myself

turning to others

for company.

I walk alone

among the moss

in forests long forgotten.

As the the meak

morning light

shine upon rustling leaves,

I listen to

the elven tirads

still ringing in my ears.

I turn towards

the Northern light-

at last

my time has come.

He turned to me unexpectedly; a sense of urgency

tension rippling through his body.

A warning for those who never

learned to swim in the vast ocean

as waves are coming in, growing, twisting-

foam almost breaking beneath the weight

of all too many sea shells.

Poetry- a living, breathing, fiery thing.

Each piece contains a world of its own.

Words written in a grand fashion or secretely

between the breaths.

Take my hand and leap forward,

let us transcend to angels

descendant from a state of ignorant bliss.