De-Scribed (Death Of A Poet)
And just like that the door was closed.
each second seemed to last forever -
a cold wind slammed against my face,
as I stared at a white canvas.
Shadows danced around me
in the pitch black
and the colors died that day;
my world, silent once again.
Walled in clouds of pillows;
solitairy confinement.
The metaphors soon died
in their cocoon sarcophagus,
and their beauty was lost
like empty pages folded into
chaotic origami crumpled balls
of flightless cranes,
buried in a heap of
unfullfilled thoughts.
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