Degradation Trip

Not really a poem, not really a story

A vast canvas of black, beyond glass enclosure astounds me. Sparkle of golden illuminates peripheral vision; rings of sun-kissed creations forever hovering around a supple haze of emerald celestial wonder. Hands to transparent barrier and I feel like I’m falling- falling into nothingness and everything all at once.

In the room beside me, the soulful wailing of cords made from Angel hair, escape themselves from the clutch of Jerry Cantrell’s fingertips. Compelled and controlled, my feeble limbs stride towards tranquil sounds ‘till I stand in awe. His presence unaware of my own.

A hand on my arm, and I turn to child-hood memories and innocence. A face now as old as my own, defined and real smiles back. A tension I wish to break, envelops the once serene setting. A hug is given and received, words flow but are erased by the air before they reach our ears.

Author's Note

Based entirely off of three dreams I had.

Reviews

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I give you credit for writing down the memories of your dream. I promise myself I always will and never do. I like non-poem/non-stories. I tend to jot this down a lot myself. You write with such eloquence. You can tell these emotions were effortless on your part. Thoroughly enjoyed and nicely penned.

[joshua deathdealer]

Excellent write. Flows very well and its captivating!!

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i liek what is said about the hug, This is wonderful.