rainclouds

on the canvas of the world,

the divine artist spills grey.

silhouettes of buildings and life,

etched against the backdrop of purple skies,

now consumed by the great dollop of grey.

the inner child in me,

carrying magic in his eyes,

runs around in circles,

trying to free himself,

from the jail of his captor.

his running now vain,

the magic seeping out,

like blood from a cut wrist.

the child doomed to a fate of memories and has-beens,

sits and stares,

eyes grow weary and tired,

as for all magic is lost,

happiness a myth,

and

childishness a fool's paradise,

the trees of autumn despair,

nod in agreement,

in the cold, rainy wind.

​

​

Links :

1. https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/w29djx/comment/igs2173/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3
2. https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/w2tbup/comment/igs2gc8/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3