I am trapped in an ancient manor house, cobwebs in every nook
and cranny, flickering shadows and the creak of floorboards enforcing
unimaginable terror in my being. As my eyes dart uncontrollably in the dark,
crude portraits become somewhat visible, lining the aged walls, a tribute to
the lives now lost. Ornate, rustic pillars loom like giants in the hallway. The
echoes of those who have once resided in the manor still resonate, like an evil
presence. I run my trembling fingers across the exquisite oak furniture, coated
in a thick layer of accumulated dust, and a chill seeps into me as I sense ethereal
spirits, ghostly reincarnations of previous inhabitants. Is this hellish
nightmare of a house merely a creation of my mind, or is this reality? I long
to leave this cursed manor, to be as far away from the place as possible, by
any means available. The panic is consuming me and I wish for the confusion and
trepidation to end. Fear grips my heart as I cower in the corner, anticipating
the daylight, to force the pale silhouettes away. Mystery lies behind the unknown reason for my dismay.
There must be an answer to this madness…
Saturday, 14 July 2012
Long To Rain Over Us
A short poem based on the Diamond Jubilee Flotilla:
The rain lashed down at an astonishing rate,
yet the British did not hesitate,
to arrive, en masse at the Thames banks,
for Her Majesty, a symbol of their thanks.
Sixty years, the length of her reign,
and with dignity she did maintain,
a broad grin etched across her aged face,
the celebrations throughout the country continued at pace.
The Spirit of Chartwell glided elegantly along,
accompanied by a fleet, 1000 strong,
an array of purple, red and pristine gold,
the crowd gazed proudly, in the bitter cold.
Church bells, horns and cheers filled the air,
the British spirit in a triumphant fanfare,
a flawless diamond, shining bright,
a finale of fireworks to crown the night.
The rain lashed down at an astonishing rate,
yet the British did not hesitate,
to arrive, en masse at the Thames banks,
for Her Majesty, a symbol of their thanks.
Sixty years, the length of her reign,
and with dignity she did maintain,
a broad grin etched across her aged face,
the celebrations throughout the country continued at pace.
The Spirit of Chartwell glided elegantly along,
accompanied by a fleet, 1000 strong,
an array of purple, red and pristine gold,
the crowd gazed proudly, in the bitter cold.
Church bells, horns and cheers filled the air,
the British spirit in a triumphant fanfare,
a flawless diamond, shining bright,
a finale of fireworks to crown the night.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
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