Illusions and Grandeur

It

Was perfect.

Warm against my skin and as bright as summer sunlight

In my eyes, scattering the thought of darkness

Before it could balloon into night.

Was I blinded?

_______________________

It was a soft murmur in my ear in the morning,

The chirping early birds resting on my windowsill,

The sunlight catching the breeze and dancing

Through my hair, leaving bold streaks of gold in its wake.

They faded to grey.

_______________________

The stiffness in my joints had vanished.

The delicate balance of cynicism in my blood settled

Into an easy rhythm as I finally slept.

Woke with hot ambition burning through me,

Igniting every last molecule of me.

_______________________

Morning came with sparkling certainty and night followed

Full to bursting with whispered promises

And the pillow talk of the stars.

How could I be anything but enraptured by those words?

How could I be anything but enraptured?

_______________________

They were littered with stardust, coated with cosmic beauty.

Auroras colored them green with hope and the sky,

Once dark and closed off to me,

Opened its doors and flooded me in brilliant moonlight.

I was blinded, wasn’t I?

_______________________

It wasn’t summer. The sun was on a long hiatus.

The birds had died and I was knee-deep in the hallucination

Of normalcy, of the perfectly ordinary.

The earnest heat in my veins was a delusion

Crafted by a master artisan, a tradesman.

Morning never came and the stars never welcomed me.

_______________________

The moon had closed its eye.

And I was in darkness

_______________________

I have made a symphony of errors.

They trail behind me like droplets of blood

Littering the pristine snow with bitter promises and fractured

Dreams exploded into scarlet nightmares.

Mud has gathered around my ankles.

I am sinking in the absence of reality.

_______________________

Maybe I was a fool, a touch too ignorant to sing so loudly.

I drank too much sunlight, breathed too much fresh air,

And danced without care for too long to be anything other

Than a loser who lost the game.

Maybe I am a sore loser. A delicate little fool.

_______________________

Fragile things get broken and I am a series of spidering cracks,

Lightning bolts reaching for ground.

Let me falter, let me fall, let me sleep in the dust of the fallout.

Let me, let me,

Because I rather like the idea of becoming a shadow pressed

Into the dusty old ground by a flash of power.

_______________________

Silver Serpent Books

_______________________

Remember, not everything written in the first person is about the author. It could be from the perspective of a rock, a root, or a worm. It could be about a cloud, a bomb, or a random, unidentified character. :) Just a gentle reminder that not everything is a personal cry. They are just words, and I am just an author.