Sunrise is his favourite time of the day,
When the rest of the world sleeps and he lavishes in peace,
The animals scavenge for their final meal before settling down to rest,
He takes nothing for granted, knowing any day he could cease.
**
He walks the darkness of his tortured mind,
Living in a world of beings severely misunderstood,
The inky blood that runs through their blackened hearts,
Living life in an atmosphere where only the strongest could.
**
Spinning stories revolve around his crisp reputation,
Leaving many confused at that which they find tough to believe,
Wanderings throughout the nightmares of the lowest of low,
Imaginations that run horrid, they could never conceive.
**
He can roam comfortably in either reality,
Classified as a hero, while scolded within his dreams,
His strength rallies an army to discipline those out of line,
Coaching the evil nightmares, toning their extremes.
**
He whispers into the ears of the mightiest of scoundrels,
Imparting his wisdom to those that listen to any degree,
Turning their thoughts on their head, a changing in disguise,
Promising them the ability to once again run free.
**
He smiles at the idea of cleansing one being at a time,
Winning them back from the darkest hours in which they wallow,
Stretched thin, he wrestles with all his might,
Refusing to allow that side to win, not through a bite or swallow.
**
He sends gratitude to the morning sun as she raises her head,
Bowing within her rays knowing it’s his time to rest,
Her warmth breaking through the coldness that wraps his heart,
Knowing what he needs, it’s what she does best.
**
He has survived one more struggle, one darkening fight,
Moving stealthily through the blackest of night,
Holding on with every ounce of his being, holding on tight,
Until the morning dawns and instantly floods him in light.
If you like this Drabble, why not check out my latest book, published on 30 May 2024.
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Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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