<pre>If The world was as pretty as the poets made us beleive.
If I wasnt lieing to my self when I say us.
Because I am one of many, but I reside on the other side of the flowery words weaving fantasical worlds.
I strike myself silly, and frolick in the confusion.
--letting the words and thoughts free.
they dance like butterflies in the air, though some are rather dragons in gemstone armour.
I wish the way I saw something wasnt contorted with wishes and thoughts and
how am i to share this with the world?
I lose track and thought and soon the ideas and words are streaming from my hands and tounge.
The dragons circle higher and the gems gleam ever so brighter.
I laugh and spin around to never lose sight but when I blink the dragons and butterflies and dreams and wishes are gone.
My created world, my lovely fabrication of existance is gone.
I want to wilt like the captured flower, forever trying to atain the beauty I once saw.
I try to recreate the world that is just out of reach. I never seem to get it quite right.
though the others say they see what I ment and they follow carefully guided on my attempted trek back through the butterfly fields.
I never can share what I saw. But the very best that I can try seems almost good enough.
but then the dragons whisper in my ear and I want to dream again.
Maybe this time I'll scavenge a butterfly wing and a gem or two.
The poet doth drop the pen and her wings spread, she takes flight again. </pre>
YOU ARE READING
Imitations of Immortality
PoetryPoety. I guess that makes me a poetess, or a Lady Poet. They both sound funny. I like to be called storyteller, world-builder, bard. I tell stories in epics, and legends in rhyme. They are all futile attempts, as it is merely clumsy poet's song. Tho...
