Illusions

I sit lonely, bleak and thinned

Listening to the moaning of the wind

I am in a forlorn life

Doomed to never have love nor strife

In this late hour I begin to fear

I’ll only be a souvenir

 

Your pitch black hair billows down the walls

Of this labyrinth, these endless halls

This house was once so full of knowledge

Now lust and desire are my bondage

Reminded of my stupidity

As I slip from my lucidity

 

I see your eyes in every mirror

I sense your heartbeat getting nearer

I run from you, and I tread lightly

I trip on the remains of my psyche

Your laugh echoes in this desolate chamber

Why does it now provoke such anger?

 

Is this how I’m supposed to feel?

My sadness is the only thing that’s real

Ghosts of light walk out the door

I don’t know how�"they are so sore

A piece of paper, dropped by a dove

“Welcome to the other side of love”  

Reviews

[John]

The poem has that atmosphere of claustraphobia you find in the work of Poe. The stand out line for me is 'I’ll only be a souvenir', someone of little worth that reminds of something or somewhere else. I think the metre could be smoother in places and some of the rhymes seem a little forced e.g. strife/life, door/sore - The challenge with rhyme is to make is to make it seem completely natural. However, I think with a little work, it could be a very good piece.

[AMordahl]

Thank you; I see what you mean about the rhymes. I'll certainly work on that.

[The Refined Poet]

nicely written, beautifully sad...