On the bright side, I've been working really hard on writing stuff this week. On the not-so-bright-side for this blog, it's all been work on my book. Meaning I didn't get the chance to write the story I meant to write for this week. Here's a poem instead.
An island drifts-
a spot of gold on a sapphire horizon,
emerald and ruby flashing
in the mirage-filled air.
An island floats-
dreams flutter in
the air like butterflies, in
the air with summer skies
and warm, gentle breezes-
the pure pristine clean air.
An island waits-
dreams flitting through
the soft, dazed minds of those
interlopers
foolish enough to approach;
dreams and nonsense stealing through,
seeping with poisoned intensity,
illness creeping through the body,
the mind.
An island stirs-
a group of travelers approached,
interloped through
the pristine,
the pure,
the poison air,
unknowing uncaring unthinking
of the beauty that drifts
slowly
into their souls,
drips into their souls and
slowly
pulls them through magical, nonsensical,
dream-sensical musings
that tempt into dangerous illusions
and intricate delusions.
An island sings-
a music so soft, so innocent,
so pristine,
indistinguishable
from the mirage-filled air;
interlopers, come
closer and closer,
feel the siren shiver
of magic against your skin,
of dreams against your skin.
An island tempts-
so they came
closer and closer
and felt the alluring quiver
of dreams under their skin
and watched
as reason floated away,
inhibitions evaporated
into the warm air,
flew away into
faster-faster-faster
whirlwind dreams
that catch and sparkle
beat and hum
race and thrum
dance and startle
escape and envelop and
disappear.
They disappeared.
They disappeared into their
dreams, and once more
the mirages shimmered
in an empty sky.
And somewhere
beyond the blue horizon,
an island drifts-
that beautiful, pristine
island.
