A child’s imagination is curious thing

The Gate

I stand beside the wrought iron railings of the gate, that as a child barred my way.
I had often contemplated the thought of scaling the walls,
If only to satisfy my inherent curiosity of what lays beyond.
And yet the stories my Father told me held me steadfast,
Not of the stories themselves,
But of a fear in finding them not to be true.

Now, years later, and I stand with the key.
Freedom to delve deep within the realm of pixies and fairies,
Delight in the swamp where trolls bathed,
And marvel at the wondrous maze guarded by a three headed snake.

I kept the key in my pocket and peered between the railings as I once did as child.
I was convinced I could hear mischievous laughter and distant sound of gloopy splashing.
Even on the breeze the hiss of a curious wary snake.

I walked away not entering.
Those stories my Father told me remained unsolved as truth or fiction.
But then that was the beauty of it.
They all lived in my head, and maybe, just maybe beyond the gate too.

Copyright: authorchrisbrown

Answers

I looked to the sky in the morning, but found no answers to the plethora of questions I had. There was only the warmth from the sun breathing life into a new day as it had done every morning since time eternal.

I looked to the sky at night, but found no answers still. There was only the incomprehensible vast depth of space reaching out in all directions.

And so I looked to myself. Fueled by passion that burnt as brightly as the sun, I realised I was like a star; just a spec of light amongst a multitude of others upon the dark fabric of life.

Copyright: authorchrisbrown

Answering Doubt

An old man retires to a quiet place and holds conversation with a young boy that isn’t there. He is bombarded with questions in the eager small boy’s youthful enthusiasm, but alas they resonate and reverberate within the old man’s head. Clenching his hands, he bows his head and seeks clarity and wisdom to silence the young boy’s inquiry, for fear his unanswered questions are being to agitate the child.

Then there was silence. The young boy had fallen quiet and vanished. Clarity returned once more to the old man’s mind, though no answers to questions asked, for all doubts had been removed.

Copyright: authorchrisbrown

Temptation

You come walking in
Vest top on and legs wrapped in leather
High hells on
Hair hanging down
With a smile on your face and that sparkle in your eye
You must know I adore you
Crave you
Want you
God knows that I love you
Temptation has never been so cruel
Because without that ring on your finger
You’ll never truly be mine

Copyright: authorchrisbrown

Crimson Skies – New Short Story

“Isn’t it beautiful?” the young boy enquired with a hint of awe as he gazed at the crimson sky whilst sitting himself beside the old veteran scout. “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,” he continued.

“Oh it’s beautiful alright, but it’s sure no delight. That there is the glow of a great fire. A fire in the direction we needed to be headed.”

The boy stood, “Fire?”

“A mighty one too, to make the heavens so red. My guess would be the city burns just as brightly.”

“Then we must go back! If our path is blocked by fire, we must go back.”

“Look around you boy! There’s a vast world out there waiting for us to discover it. So the sky burns red now, in the morning it may be different. One things for certain though, we’re never going back. Never!”

Copyright: authorchrisbrown

Lost

Something hurts inside
When you’re lost and can’t be found
You feel so disconnected
From every sight and every sound

No place to call your home
As there’s nowhere for your heart
So you endlessly keep walking
Getting further from the start

Tears they fall around you
Like heavy rain on the blackest day
And the scars you cannot see
Will within you always stay

To this life of shattered dreams
You’ll be forever eternally bound
Because it hurts a little more
Each day you’re lost and can’t be found

Copyright: authorchrisbrown

When?

When your fears turns to tears, and dreams crumble into decaying debris.

When salvation becomes the barrel of a loaded gun and you drink your poison to numb the pain.

When every fibre of you soul is manipulated like a marionette’s strings, pushed and pulled beyond you will.

When a heart doesn’t break, but it cracks and shatters into millions of pieces lifting into the night sky to join the stars.

When the words have been spoken and all feelings gone.

That is when it’s the end.

Copyright: authorchrisbrown

Love, Unconditional

She’s like the stars in the night sky, the moon on a cloudless night. She’s the warmth of the sun and the kiss of a summer breeze upon my cheek. She’s the salvation of open arms and the comfort of a warm welcoming bosom. Her smile captivates me and I’ll forever be #MySweetLove

Your smile is more precious than the sun when lost in the darkness, and your love is like the wind. Even though I cannot see it, I feel it within my heart every day. #mysweetheart

On the most silent of nights, when I close my eyes, the sound of her laughter fills my ears. When the cold of night bites deep beneath the blanket, I remember the warmth of her embrace and the tender touch of her fingers through my hair. There is a comfort, a reassuring sanctuary that makes me feel safe in losing myself to sleep. #myfuturewife

Emotions

Emotions are strong things. We act blindly at times because of them, through hurt and pain, sadness and anger. Sometimes though, through these strong feelings of emotion, a poet will create some of his best work.

A pile of stinking putrid filth
A gut wrenching
Vomit inducing
Stench of decaying hopes and dreams
Tortured helpless minds
Ripped out souls
And empty shells
Zombies to emotions of once they felt
Limp and lifeless forms
Meandering
Stumbling through the cesspit of life
Let me join you brothers
The legion of damned
The unloved
Slaves to abandonment and eternal loss
As I say “Good luck you all!”
The lovers
Romantics
And all of those that harbour hope
For love is death upon it’s end
Rips out your soul
Rots your heart
And leaves you broken to the core

Copyright: authorchrisbrown

Winter’s Hold

I see the appendage of a tree, stripped bare like bones ravaged by natures scavengers. I see the rock, ancient, towering and monumental. It is grey synonymous with the old. I see death, sadness and forlorn without hope. Much like the faces of those looking out from within. The land is gripped in Winter’s hold. It is cold and foreboding. All recoiling from her icy touch.

Copyright: authorchrisbrown