Twisting, writhing, yawning,
the images flicker on.
The zombie rocks, to a slow rythm
the glint of metal falls.
The sun wouldn't dare delay,
its ways are absolute truth.
But what if the curtain is drawn?
What if the truth is but to brood?
Things dealt and done with,
Are always higher than the dreams,
But dreams are inside your curtains,
and dark images are mine it seems.
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2 comments:
i wish i understood poetry ... sigh ...
I'm hardly a poet. So don't bother, it's fine :)
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