surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
Silence
And all was but a silence. For all I knew I was alone once more. In this epitome of darkness. What was once cold and bleak danced on the wind of forever be. I could hear but a slient hush in was commenced as such darkness. I drew a light from the way beyond to see all but nothing, nothing at all. So once more I was left in slience. All I heard again was a whisper that grew into such a noise it frightened me as such. I jerked up from the cold dark of the room only to draw a light once more again. Nothing in the pit of the darkness it seemed as I was going mad or something the same. So once more I laid on the dark cold sheet, covering up tighter and tighter perhaps maybe this will keep me for what made me so idiotic. The sound that creeped from the beyond grew louder and louder like it was getting closer and closer. The tighter and tighter I grasp the lines of my sheets maybe this will keep at bay. And than all of a sudden, it was nothing much but a hush. Of the cold dead wind of what was.
By Tony Fresia8 years ago in Poets
