literature

magic doesn't die.

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A-Symmetry's avatar
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Literature Text

I've lived where the ghosts sleep.

The streetlights are broken but they still stand,
arching over empty alleys filled only with dead cats.

Stardust is littered over the river,
drifting on the black water almost like moon beams.

You asked if I knew where I was going.
I told you, this was my home.

Once, I ate the lies of children, the dreams of dying leaves
and the stones that words have become
along with the ghosts of the town.

This torchlight might let us see the dirt on the ground,
but it will never detect their movements.

I know them.

They are quiet, almost silent.
They will never speak but they can scream.

They will scream you all the way into Sunday,
right past Wednesday and Friday,
the days they'd lost their bodies.

And watch your step.
If that board creaks, stories underneath it will haunt you.
Those stories are not fantasies. They are not pretty.

Between the cracks of moon light, I know their eyes are on us.
I know their feet are following our shadows.

I've made my bed where the ghosts sleep,
I know my home.
--because it was never alive.

Comments?
-does this seem fantastical or eerie or neither?
-are the stuff mentioned relevant?
-do you understand the story?

Drowning in lack of sleep. I am in misery.
© 2011 - 2024 A-Symmetry
Comments44
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Ailin1252's avatar
Stardust is littered over the river,
drifting on the black water almost like moon beams.

This is just so gorgeous. Makes me get over all the unpleasant thoughts and truths here. I know this, too, is maybe not intended to be beautiful, after all, it's 'littered', but still... it's stardust, and it screems 'Peter Pan!' to me.