PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The house in the field
August wind perfect for today
Clear sky, peacefulness conforms to my body
Orange, Brown, Red etched in my vision
Calm, always nothing to do

Run towards the house
Is that snow?
Strange, must be my eyes
It can't be real

Yes it is snow, boy
Don't fight your eyes; they never lie
You stupid blind boy

Cold it becomes; it feasts at my skin
This cannot be real
Its still warm I know it
Calm, I wish I wasn't alone
I must reach this August house

I can't feel, maybe it really is this cold
Breathing pains my body, dried blood upon my lips
Patiently the house waits for only me
Why is no one else around?

Others are around, boy
I told you before; do not fight your eyes
Blind to everyone you have become

Finally, this house is here
I reach for the holy door
The touch burns my skin, innocent pain
"Oh, God", I cry
I wish someone could help
This pain is unreal, is this still August?

Others are walking towards the house?
Strange, I did not see them before
But I only need their help
They look past my body in anguish
Am I a Ghost?

Don't you realize boy?
They were your Ghosts before
You selfish boy
You should have opened up, my boy
The time is too late.