PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

He stares down at me with hundreds of blinking eyes

I stare back,

Mesmerized by the mysteries he holds dear

The damp blanket beneath welcomes me.

The green claimimg my fingers,

my toes

Begging me to remain

I see his eyes coming down on me,

Lifting me, 

Telling me he wants to show me,

Show me his secrets

He lifts me.

I meet with a blakened curtain,

His eyes have gone

I am alone,

alone in a pool of darkness

I hear his voice

A tiny whisper in my mind.

He tells me to come,

says he wants to show me

The black curtain follows wherever we go.

He tells me he has nine children

Nine who are so different.

He wants me to see

He says he has a favorite,

He says he is beautiful,

He says he has the bluest of eyes,

And skin like oatmeal

He says I have met him

I see the other eight

I am in awe 

I want to know their secrets

I reach out,

they are too far

The air feels funny,

My eyes feel heavy,

I open them and find the stars above,

My coat damp from the green carpet beneath,

My fingers buried in it

I realise then,

I HAVE met his favorite