A light shines through the window.
What was dark is now light.
The spotlight hits its mark.
My dark form shivering on the bed.
Whispers fill the air.
Footsteps follow in their wake.
A door opens below.
Is it too late to run?
I must save myself from him.
He walks the night to find me.
His journey has come to an end.
And so has mine.
THE DEAD GAME
A ride to hell and back.
I will sit in the back.
We fly through the night air.
Sound barriers we tear.
Demons fly by our side.
I have nowhere to hide.
They take us to their lair.
I’m pulled hard by my hair.
Life is over for me.
I’ll never be set free.
THE ROAD TO NOWHERE
Life takes us on a ride.
A path with no guide.
A ride for no rhyme or reason.
A circle with no side.
A path deep into the jungle.
People passing along the way.
Traps to trip us up.
Lurking demons held at bay.
The end leaves us with more questions.
Not answered along the way.
A destination with no purpose.
No clarification for our stay.
Lost in a swirl of smoke
as it climbs the night sky.
It dances with the wind
as it reaches up high.
The smoke flickers and shakes
throughout its delicate journey.
Braced against any breath
from the nearby beings’ yearning.
It rises slowly.
Its arms reach up to the moon.
A cold wind wafts past.
It will be there all too soon.
Light the dark path.
Through the dense woods.
To the house on the edge.
Where many have gone.
Follow the puffs of smoke.
Through the rocks and brush.
To the end of the trail.
Where many have gone.
THE DEAD GAME
I WALK ALONE
I walk alone each night.
Far from my bed, I roam.
I cannot fall asleep.
I wander far from home.
The moon is my lone shadow.
My only company as I walk.
I keep my eyes to the ground.
I have no one with whom to talk.
I shiver from the cold wind.
My fingers are tinged blue.
I seldom pass anyone.
Strangers are far and few.
My journey ends at your door.
No courage to ring the bell.
I stand across the street.
As I ponder my own hell.
IMG_4842 // By Robert Guimont
The swamp holds mysteries,
Silence within its barren domain.
Eyes peek through the sheer surface,
Hinting at the dangers lurking below.
Lacking is the bird’s song of twilight.
Missing is the rustle through the brush.
Silence holds us in its thrall,
Cold fingers clasping around my neck.
Humid air coats my mottled body,
Mutilated by blood-thirsty mosquitoes.
The path teases my mind’s eye,
Offering a way out of this hellhole.
I hack at the dried branches,
Threatening to leave me with one eye.
I’ve reached the end of my journey
As my feet sink in the quicksand of despair.
An escape hatch is what we all need.
A way to run away from it all.
I’m leaving no matter what you plead.
I want and need to feel ten feet tall.
I know life can take your breath away.
It can also deaden your dark heart.
Last time I felt right, I cannot say.
But I’m tired of playing this part.
A new journey is waiting for me.
New people and places to explore.
No baggage to take along with me.
I’ll travel until I don’t want more.
A long journey to become an author,
Days of soul searching and hard work.
The words need to be enticing and clear,
A bridge to the reader’s heart.
A movie camera sweeps across scenes,
So does a book’s point of view.
One point of view shows one angle,
While changing points of view reveal more.
To be lost in a book is truly a gift,
An escape from the mundane and boring.
A visit to far away places can be
An adventure to open your mind’s eye.
Once completed, a book is a treasure,
A symbol of the author’s hopes and dreams.
A confectioner’s delight to be tasted and savored,
To be remembered by the many or just a few.