Hey, since I struggle expressing myself clearly, I developed a habit of writing short poems. I hope it’s not to weird.
What am I?
It’s lingering around,
waiting to be found.
It’s senses keen,
Waiting to be seen.
A story, never told,
History ancient and old.
A friend, a foe a stranger in black,
Silently preparing the attack.
It sleeps, it watches, it prepares,
Follows my steps with dark-red glares.
It’s there, it’s gone, was never seen,
It was with me, where I have been.
It swallows people, pets and homes,
Out of ashes, it builds its thrones.
Never seen, always in mind,
Never heard, yet so familiar,
Devastation, dread and grief,
It is our life time’s thief.
She waits with me, waits for her chance.
I took her hand, began to dance.
Since then we spun around so fast, one foot left, the other right,
An abyss, lifeless, comes in sight.
I dance with fear between two worlds,
One step for and then she swirls,
Pulling me and pushing back, slowly, the time, I’m losing track.
I’m all alone, my fear with me, wonder, will I ever be… Me?