Close your eyes…
What are you?
What makes you… you?
*
Again, close your eyes
Take a deep breath
What do you see? I know it’s dark
But can you see it? It's you
*
Are you a name, a noun, a sound?
Or muscles, nerves that crawl?
Are you merely a smile, your carved-out teeth?
Are you routine, are you movement, are you fear?
No…
*
Millions have your name
Thousands have those lips
And many many more have lost
Many Many more times
The same things that you have
But you are one odd-out
*
Once again
Close your eyes
Feel you
Take the colors of your mind
Ssssstreeeeeeeetch themmmm out
Stop looking at the wrong side…
Realize that whatever in this hell you are
Is yelling, shouting, marching, fighting
Inside
About the Creator
Matt B.
He/Him
Life demands creation.
SIR DORAN
The fire cracks and spits, offering light and the illusion of solace, but Sir Doran feels no warmth. He sits on a fallen tree and watches the fire as he rests his hands on the pommel of his sword, its blade chipped and worn, more symbolic than functional. Much like Sir Doran himself.
By Aaron Morrison7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
Woah
Somewhat mysterious