She stands outside
reason : unknown.
The leaves crackle as they glide.
The wind picks up; trees are blown.
The sun captures her in a spotlight,
rays of hope fall beside her...
hence the cool air: it warms the fright.
The house behind her, fades to a blur.
Racing thoughts escape her head,
taken away with each gust of wind: each whisper.
With all the tears she has ever shed,
all the pain, made history.
Soon the wind falls dead.
She doesn't move, just remains still...
the world frozen, no commotion in her head.
Then it all happens against her will...
A warm breeze brushes her neck,
chills race to the tips of her toes.
She is forced to move, but only to check,
'cause shes off the ground before she knows.
Her mind, still on pause...
a smile brightens her face.
Can't imagine a possible cause;
her heart beats a different pace.
The wind lets out another whisper,
somehow forming a full statement
kiss her
Suddenly her lips gain a tingling sensation...
Not realizing her eyes were closed,
slowly she opens them.
Not sure what her sight may behold...
gradually she gains feeling again.
His presence, now tangible
not just a whisper in the wind.
Her heart, currently unreliable,
but its magic, this feeling, him..
About the Creator
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 Rolly6 days ago in Horror
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