I found this one poem, hiding deep between some cramped pages of the same notebook I use to write the story I’ve mentioned I’m working on at the moment. I’m not quite sure myself if I like it or not, but there’s some parts that I really enjoy, in there. Balanced by some horrible ‘clichés’, no doubt, but I decided to put it up here anyways. It’s different, slightly, of what I usually write, so maybe it widens the range here, a bit.
Your presence still now lingers here,
gently drapes me, warms my soul;
since you left, walked out the door,
you’ve inhabited my mind instead.
And no matter what I try to do,
I can’t get you out of my head.
You’re like a pale white ghost of past,
you haunt me so in my sleep.
I stay here; awake, alone,
this house so filled with our memories.
And I fear the fact you won’t return;
I’m scared by images these:
Your hands so cold against my neck,
slowly choke me ’till I die,
until I cannot take any more.
Then, out of this hell I see your face near –
through the house that burns in flames so bright.
And yet, you are not here.