Poetry

Once as I sat, writing at my desk;
Shooing off flies, people and pests;
I write my poem - my piece of paragraphs proudly played together on a piece of paper;
But soon, I abruptly stopped as my mind tapered;
As I looked out my window where outside the rain wailed and seemingly never withered as it slammed into the earth's dark hearth;
A black mere galloped across the ground, everything but gracious, spreading chaos and darkness with each shadowy yet blazing and blaring step, heading in my direction;
As I curled into a ball in the corner of my room, withering and wailing tears that no one there would hear, as charging forward did the black mere, in complete perfection;
But as the mere came deathly and dreadfully closer and closer, it frantically faded in fragments as I stood up;
Quickly I slammed my quill into my paper, knowing not that my mind shall cease to terribly taper, pouring out words from ink, that soon ascended to lines then stanzas that cried in horror and anguish, that no one but me could understand -- that I could understand as my emotions along with the ink from my quill would erupt;
As my happiness was devoured by a deathly shark;
The climbing cathedrals that ascended from ink flowed off of the paper as formed did I a new layer, continuing to spill my emotions with devotion as there was no notion that any person would understand -- as there was no other movement or motion;
But soon the cathedrals shortened as the supplies were tapered, now the child stared down at his city of ink that no longer rose in commotion;
To my bed I soon walked, leading the city to live but soon dreadfully disappear and die by itself;
As I tried to sufficiently sleep, but it was implausible and impossible that I would ever truly be able to, having absolutely no mental or emotional health;
Signed, Darkheart.
©idarkheart