The Nightmare of Me

I don't know what inspired it. I am insane.

Never sigh for better prose.

This composure is a bitter ending.

Every thought is abstinence for my soul.

This theme is a beauty.

These roles are placed with blue lined care.

 

This orchard is a compass in the symphony of a billion stories.

This poem is an unlocked key without a concealing door.

Shaded in abyss, this black of subconscious is a remedy to the toxic kiss.

This song maker’s cry weeps the music he writes.

Tears are a river full of ghosts.

Words take their odyssey through the rosette of the hideaway.

 

This equilibrium is a pleasure for my sleeping soul.

Take the mermaids to the magnificent cull.

This restless fairy-tale is a platform above the bluest grass.

Allure my sore.

Compose this wound with poetry. 

Tune my oblivion into a flawless masterpiece,

A speck without a scrawl.

Snow kissed horizons caress the blood red piano.

 

Caress the mourning of the yearning moonbeam.

Intransigence written in sliver.

Smoke and mirrors embrace the senseless freeze.

Transparent monologues are a dawn to the transient dues.

Southern green takes the crest of an oceans gleam.

A harmonised vestige teases the longing draft.

 

This universe chequered by the lone.

This memory is a page once scorned.

The songbird flies deeper, into the chests of time.

A poem so blue.

This stillness is a peaceful elegance, for the wanting pearls.

Conscious stories coerce this impetus.

Sacred words take heart in the disguising musk.

 

Colours in labyrinth.

This chronicle of a tell-tale farewell.

The infinite robe takes me for a ride.

I visit this orchard on a cold winter’s day.

I retrace the crimson key into a never ending night.

This harmonic ballad thaws its theme with care.

Abscond the violins heart into the sirens snare.

Pianos fall from the sky; every star is a never ending music bar.

 

Passion is a tease between the protagonist and antagonist.

Play this star.

I loathe the score of this clearing.

My soul is a puppet for the perfect concert.

This masquerade so flawless.

A theatre betrays its play.

Divine kisses dance a sweetest ballet.

 

Affirm the relics of a poet’s splendour.

Rob the eyes from this darkest day mare.

Such a puzzle this duet.

This ceremonial is a stabbing cartwheel.

This conquest cruising on a mirage of the night.

Afterlife is decadence.

Defection is devotion.

A divine cadence.

Betroth this madness to the infernal corner.

This phantom ballad is a shadowy sequel.

 

A story basking in the angst of day.

A confession so sweet for the comforting submission.

Raindrops of worth fall in place of a madman’s tears.

Forever remains that change between the whispering minors.

This utopia so warped.

The timeline of the universe remains transfigured.

 

Paranoia is a reflection in the nightmarish mirror.

I am the melody of a thousand unfinished musicians.

Comatose memories are an opalescent undertow.

Strands of an inception bleed into the labyrinth of mystery.

This song so secret,

The transmuted storyteller absconds into the woeful eclipse.

Metaphysical stage shows failed to write an ending to this pain.

 

The trickery of twilight leaves behind the final chorus.

This glen is a passage to the madness of peace.

How could one want this?

This sombre serenity chimes the clock of time.

 

Encompassed in the wisdom of words.

This violin has stuck an almighty chord.

Erase the sleepwalker from their rest of solitude.

This orchestra plays the battlefield.

This tragedienne is a more than a nightmare, it is me.

© Frankie Brooks

The End

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