Lying under a wrinkled sheet,
his mind's eyes are playing games.
All the gargoyles from his past-
the different sizes, shapes and names-
build pyramids out of lousy dreams.
Counting oddly-numbered sheep,
he christens all of them with names
of all the gargoyles from his past,
making fire out of blame,
they're turning into woolen flames.
His lullaby is red and orange,
killing monsters when he's bored.
He'll live to kill another soul,
his heart is black, his laughter whole.
Even dreams are dyslexic with rewards.
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2 comments:
can't pretend i understand it completely, but awesome awesome poem.
Hahaha. Thank you. I just read it again, and decided I don't like it. Mostly because even I'm pretending I know what I wrote. I must have just been really bored.
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