Colors Clamor

A threat to the salve or restorative sleep

and making waking moments mean something

past the passing of the sun and

the tides softly pulling the sands of sanity away.

Thick fog creeps across dewy ground

suffocating lifegivers with its evil embrace

hiding the glowing eyes of nightstalkers

and willing the unwary into a state of stupor

some fools part with their money to achieve.

The waning moon wastes away

gracing the lost with its wan light

that it never returns yet always asks to borrow

when another day is lost to broken songs.

Such travelers are the ones always pigeonholed

yet rarely understood, as their strangeness is

not truly owned by a singular niche, yet

always rears its ugly head at the most inopportune time.

The strings that hold reality together

are fraying and whipping about in the wind

pulling apart the static pictures that make memory

and scattering them about in the muck

to be petrified anf utilized anew

in an age where virtue and vice

meld to become the deciding factor

in what garuntees your future

as one who sees what isnt there

and hears the growth of their own hair

the one with a frantic searching stare

the one whose god has lost his care

the one whose life is trite unfair

the one who resides in insanitys lair.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

for ashes hallucinations.

View mrpoofs's Full Portfolio