Outside of the cold dancing and screaming,
The cutting of neon pink blades
Right through my sclera,
There is a palace,
Hidden away behind the rusted once-white tiles.
Its walls are made of the greyest stone,
Covered in the greenest moss,
The most twisted vines,
And the pinkest blossoms.
It stretches farther than I can imagine,
And every corridor I hadn’t noticed
goes on endlessly.
I have tried to map it,
But the more I try,
The bigger it grows.
And when I sleep there,
I hear growls in the distance,
Along with scratching
And the shuddering of windows
It does not want me to stay.
And when I pry my eyes open,
The palace leaves me,
And I am hiding in the bathroom once more.
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Author:
Thallo (
Offline) - Published: October 19th, 2026 03:27
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 21
- Users favorite of this poem: Fränz Müller
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Comments2
Somnambulism dreams and awakening in this poetic write that seems surreal. Well done
I quite enjoyed this one!
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