She showed me her dreams,
They were colourful and gay.
She showed her dreams
they were present and wingless
Her dreams were full of old, monstrous colours
and driven by a grim nothingness.
She showed me her dreams
They were in shadowy shades
And like a leaky water jar
They were full of emptiness.
Her dreams sluice from a fine vase
Of dead hopes and present lies
Forgotten truths and fire-like frustrations.
She collected her dreams
like water in a basket
and they drip and droop slowly
into an unremembered past.
Submitted: December 27, 2020
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Criss Sole
I loved the use of metaphors here.
Sun, December 27th, 2020 9:24amGreat poem.
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Thank you so much for your time. I much appreciate it.
Sun, December 27th, 2020 1:39am