To wait for someone's the work of the porch
As the sun goes down, to light up the sky, it holds up a torch
Like a force of habit I watch, don't know if it's South, don't know if it's North
Don't know if the day's dying, don't know if the night is born.
And though everyone's gone for a rest, I sense a feeling of yearning
The breeze is cool and cold, yet inside feels like burning
They're away for a break, repeats my head, yet it awaits for their returning
All sadness meant to dissipate has been swallowed, I can feel it churning and squirming.
Few rooms, small house, yet it feels like a cemetery, dead soundless
A body's present with lips sewed shut, and so the whispers are boundless
How can thoughts be so piercing, they're mouthless, what is this loudness!
Only the sound of fans and rustling of leafes, still I feel cornered, surrounded.
Come midnight, it's dark, still there's the sun hanging
Casting a veil upon the clouds like a veil of blood, chilling, enchanting
And here lays my eyes frozen astray, missing, scanning
For the smallest step or noise, banging, or laughing.
Perhaps we were meant to meet, you and I, my peculiar sight
It's much in place to thank you, my nighttide's not dark, your sky's not white
I shall wait for them and write for you, midnight sun, I shall write for you tonight
For such a view I give you the strange phenomenon of my shed tears, in behalf that I'll soon see them
But you, I shall mourn every day, for each and every unlightened night.
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Autor:
Mad_Hare (Seudónimo) (
Offline)
- Publicado: 21 de junio de 2021 a las 12:02
- Categoría: Gótico
- Lecturas: 21
- Usuarios favoritos de este poema: Augusto Fleid, Lualpri
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