The Nightmare

Running accross winds stammered the bitter old rhyme that spelt tales of a millionn rainbow coloured sentiments of regret, the darkness l had chased glides along from the backing of time sweet melodies struck by the lighting of the times. Maybe to share the little secret, she told me it would take a second for her to forget me like l never existed, out of her world l would be cast like a demon under the influence of the prosperity preachers cutting the long story short am alone swimming in sea of monsters! Today staring at screen l remember you not yet the memories you painted, the rollercoaster imaginatives that visit at night when am powerless to fight the desire to hold you tight which l never did. Why dream not of the best seconds that click fast-tracking the minutes in to hour, in the hour the scents of you are minutes that second the slow riding of time. it was in that night when the margins of reality washed down heavy hearts sinking running in the forests of a bitter old heart that carries spikes that punch through the long ridden sounds that played in the background, it a shame that the same angelic harp that scented the heavenly beating of heart terrorised by butterflies stands an empty old castles with the screaming voices attempting to overshadow the fallen angel that keeps pulling me back to the tree of life circled by fire and storm. Taken back to the tingling jiggle bells of the dear old boy who cried wolf living among the pact of jagours, dark coloured figures styled in the horizon under the valley of shooting stars. The rhmyes ring same like reality clustering across the horizon. In the planet that lingers in dreams desires manifesting in crumbles of time, standing in storms, the running from the shatter jar in broken dimension that pierce the new written glories, justifications of witchcraft clustering the conundrum that glitters in the boy chasing new dream in the broken glass. Mirror, Mirrow on the wall! the boy dance to the glittering of the stars that sing hails to the sun-god, the smokes that chimney in the blood clots hallow as a tornado that storms the city. The lava that clutters in the hallow caves curved the dark- charcoal engravements that choke life of the dear old forest. in the middle of it all the night seemed to stretch in time, the tired old eyes running to and from in anticipation of dawn yet enclosed in the jar of broken dreams that stick injections of the bitter old fallacies that swim like lost souls in the jacket of humanity.