something inspired by Die Verwandlung and Steven Wilson

The turning of the hands seems to slow down
an eternity passing through clocks on the wall,
grains of sand cover the cuckoo’s coat of down
it weeps a lonely note in time’s cold thrall,
softly, swiftly fading out into the autumn breeze.

The window is open to let in faint yellow dust
a beetle crawls through the couch’s green mold,
a broom sweeps through the spider web crust,
mournfully moving the horror as it grows old,
slowly rotting away before the winter freeze.

The shadow of a face peers through the curtain
the night slowly allows the silhouettes to jive,
tentacles crawling across antiques to fates uncertain,
somehow in obscurity ghosts become most alive,
and perform lurid rituals in the beholder’s mind.

A whisper takes the shape of a voice in the night,
tall tales of memories made into truth by thought.
Mouths and eyes seize up in the eerie moonlight,
waiting for the moment to squeeze through the draught,
and let the chitin thorax and scaly legs unwind.

The shadows crawl from the bedposts onto the sheets,
dancing on the blankets and pillows with delight.
They twist into places where ill illusions meet,
Poison for a fairy bereaved of faith in her plight.

The breath  of foul spiders whispers words of sorrow,
Scattering navy fragments from a hallowed past.
Slowly the monster lays itself to sleep for the morrow,
Slithering into the void when first sunlight is cast.


Om joannavanschaik

Science communication graduate. Music, poetry, literature, travel, science and language collide in this blog.
Det här inlägget postades i English och har märkts med etiketterna , , , , , . Bokmärk permalänken.


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