Post by Redfleck on May 25, 2017 21:13:41 GMT -5
This is for Fading Reality's poetry contest: Faster than Brownie. I haven't written poetry in a while, but I'll try my best on this. Here's trying for first place!
Prompt: unopened
Come With Me
My world is finally coming to an end.
Eventually everything
Will go dark and fade away without a trace:
My beliefs, dead and
My possessions, vanished,
For the universe is a book—
Unique to its interpreter, and yet still containing the same words.
It slowly but surely inches closer
And closer
To its very
Last
Word.
The First Chapter
Shrouded in some weird mist, the light
Really was too bright and blinding.
Now turn the page, and surely
The glare on the glass has eased a little.
Something's missing here and I don't know what;
Something's cast a shadow, and I don't know what.
But bad memories need only to be rewritten, right?
Imagine a world where humans acted in pencil
Instead of ink. Maybe things would've been different,
I think. We could've revised history in a blink
Of an eye. I don't need to cry
Over inkstained pages.
Yet, try as I may,
The regrets I have refuse to die
And they scatter like moldy spores.
About the ink that soaks the book I was;
Perhaps it's always something transient like
The flowers: spring or fall—but time can fuzz
Away so easy. Why is life a strike
Of black on pages, left behind and lost?
Or why is life a clover dead with frost?
With unopened eyes, I've unknowingly navigated
So blindly the sea of stories this colorful world's got to offer.
Regret stains my pages with black and more black.
As time trudges on, my paper withers.
And the achromatic story I used to be
Has died; it's gone forever:
Practically unopened in the first place.
But before I allow the wind to blow my dust away,
Before the pages have been turned, or before the ink runs out...
Will you be so kind as to join me?
In a venture beyond these ink-stained pages,
In a dream outside my book bindings?
Prompt: unopened
Come With Me
My world is finally coming to an end.
Eventually everything
Will go dark and fade away without a trace:
My beliefs, dead and
My possessions, vanished,
For the universe is a book—
Unique to its interpreter, and yet still containing the same words.
It slowly but surely inches closer
And closer
To its very
Last
Word.
The First Chapter
Shrouded in some weird mist, the light
Really was too bright and blinding.
Now turn the page, and surely
The glare on the glass has eased a little.
Something's missing here and I don't know what;
Something's cast a shadow, and I don't know what.
But bad memories need only to be rewritten, right?
Imagine a world where humans acted in pencil
Instead of ink. Maybe things would've been different,
I think. We could've revised history in a blink
Of an eye. I don't need to cry
Over inkstained pages.
Yet, try as I may,
The regrets I have refuse to die
And they scatter like moldy spores.
About the ink that soaks the book I was;
Perhaps it's always something transient like
The flowers: spring or fall—but time can fuzz
Away so easy. Why is life a strike
Of black on pages, left behind and lost?
Or why is life a clover dead with frost?
With unopened eyes, I've unknowingly navigated
So blindly the sea of stories this colorful world's got to offer.
Regret stains my pages with black and more black.
As time trudges on, my paper withers.
And the achromatic story I used to be
Has died; it's gone forever:
Practically unopened in the first place.
But before I allow the wind to blow my dust away,
Before the pages have been turned, or before the ink runs out...
Will you be so kind as to join me?
In a venture beyond these ink-stained pages,
In a dream outside my book bindings?
