The walls close by themselves,
Ricochet the moment that is,
Bound to reappear, then bare,
It is a twisted clutch of a mound,
That will never shut out on its own,
Pounding for a chance to grip,
And change through time,
A special field that we keep,
Passing a point that comes into,
The mail as far as it can happen,
Sometimes we are sorted,
Into a class that will pinpoint,
When the next train will pass through,
Tripping the study age of,
Your field that you might be,
Able to control then later on,
Twist more than colorful,
Borrow the time that is.
About the Creator
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Trigger warnings: Violence, Death. "May the Sun burn your tongue out, woman," Fredrick's father screamed the curse into his mother's ear as their elegant little carriage rumbled along, its polished wood and gilded trim glinting in the torchlight. They had just left the small village of Saffron and were on an unnamed road to the capital for the Royal wedding. Fredrick leaned back in his plush velvet seat to escape into the passing landscape, but across from him sat the servant boy, a scrappy lad named Jack. Jack's eyes held a mixture of awe and fear, the kind that only a commoner could feel in the presence of nobility. Jack looked up and caught Fredrick's gaze, offering him a sad little smile before reaching into his pocket and retrieving a little caramel treat. This candy was no doubt stolen from the kitchen treat cupboard; if he was caught with it, he would be locked in the box as punishment.
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Comments (1)
Oh wow, I never knew what a blackout poetry was. I just Googled it. Loved your poem!