Beneath the Floor

Everything about this life is speculation... don't play it off as fact.

Time to take a look, past the web and dust,
This life is all dimensions--forgotten
Lies take on the form of ghosts, without trust;
But there is the Thinker, thinking rotten
Thoughts that linger back and forth, finding faith.
Digging deeper, searching for the headless;
It worms its way through time, through frozen space,
Around stars, suns, slaves, hiding from success.
Finally found, the answer lies in cracks,
Inside a mirror of a mirror, glass
And body impeding a hand of black;
Tempting, touching, but the truth has no mass.
The Thinker thinking upon a glass floor,
Not the while knowing his mind and more.

 

 

 

Author's Note

First Shakespearean sonnet, written at age 16.

Reviews

[Nikki]

its nice :)