They read a book
In order to dream
But I
Can dream awake
Writing my own stories
By heart…
Sounds to me, symphonious
An orchestra of reality
Plays song notes
Drums in my ears
A multitude of melodies…
No composition sounds the same.
Like characters
Unique…
Abstract concepts…
Fabricated by a creative soul
Who is rumored,
Never seen.
Sights are illustrations
That no one sees alike
Every blink,
A new page,
New world to behold.
Spectrum of colors
So many seen
But so many obscured
Invisible
But existing
Floats in space unknown.
Characters
Claimed imaginary
Are most real of all
But left in blinded corners
That kill them over time.
Characters
Claimed reality
Just alike,
Die in similar manners,
We all end up the same.
A storybook spirit
Pulses in this body
Held in confines of mortality
Writes a plea in
What she does
Sends a prayer to the
Writer,
Grant me eternity…
Immortality…
Etch me in a stone
And let me dwell here
In my storybook world
Always…
It's a strange piece, that even I found peculiar. I do like it, though.
Anyway. I came home and had a wild psychic experience. My hands began to quiver, and my fingers began to play an imaginary piano. I was then overcome by the image of a chuch and an elderly man; I heard a church song. When it was all said and done, I got up, ran to the paper, and found an obituary of a man who'd been very loyal and active in his church and its choir. It was insanity. I think that my extrasensory abilities have been getting a boost from somewhere.
I'm having a slight battle with my insomnia, which causes me to forget to sleep. However, on the flip side, it encourages me to do some deep, almost philosophical thinking. I guess it's a trade-off.
I'm going to take an herbal remedy and see if it'll get me to have some decent sleep tonight.
No comments:
Post a Comment