Song of the Elder Heart
Reflection of an elder
Songs of my heart,
Poems illuminate,
A dream from a garden,
Welcoming with doors open,
Toss a coin,
For the magician,
I felt rich as I had gold,
Now I wear silver of old,
A dream from a loving soul,
For a simple life before the fall,
A blessing I can't comprehend,
You who I could never wed,
Half dreams hanging on crescent moon,
Hanging on by the threshold on a thin line,
Feeling content, asking to be saved,
When I was younger I never behaved,
Younger am I now, the colors never faded,
A portrait on the wall of my beloved,
Age is a mystery, it is only a number,
Still a child in my world feeling a little wiser
About the Creator
Swords and Feathers
My name is Ritesh D. Singde. I write spiritual, philosophical poems that are often heartfelt. I'm inspired emotionally by instrumental music that I translate into metaphors and poems/short stories.
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At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly3 days ago in Horror
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