Song, Dance, Rhythm, Rhyme:..The song, the dance, the rhythm, the rhyme,sounds of bells echoing with their chime,all things make good in some time.Some would say, a passive crimeif not for things ripe in primethe song, the dance, the rhythm, the rhyme.When everyone must make the climband never stop on a dimeall things make good in some time.Never like a silent mimeand never sour like limethe song, the dance, the rhythm, the rhyme.Quick, something else that rhymes with time,nothing else?! How about meter?All things make good in some time.So maybe now this poem teeters,it really didn't get much sweeter.The song, the dance, the rhythm, the rhyme,all things make good in some time.
Dreamscapes::.I can not describe how it feels,the sun beating down on my facewarming my cheeks.The pull and push of the oceanagainst my legs.Peace is at hand,tranquility and warmthsoaking into my blood.A fish swims by;it's whiskers brushing against my thighs.leaving brush strokes as they do,the ink diffusing into the water.It taints the clear liquid blackas the swirling patterns are disrupted.My eyes look down, my legs move of their own accordwading deeper into the water, the pull moving me forward.The higher it rises, the colder it becomes;confusion crossing my brow.Looking forward I see a dark shadow,racing towards me.Suddenly enveloped in the darkness,I am weightless.My body free to move as it pleases,suspended in gravity.Here there is no sound, nothing to smell or see.Just clarity, a refreshing cold that cleanses me.A chime rings through the empty,and I close my eyes, feeling the vibrations;the hair on my skin standing upright.When I open them, I am no lon
.: No Safe Place :.The room was filled with yellow light, soaking the plain white walls with its blinding washed out color. A few chairs were placed in there, framing the small round rug on the floor. There were not windows, the door heavy, steel plated. A light humming noise came from the refrigerator, the only other piece of furniture left. Two of the chairs had been pushed together, forming a bed of sorts in the corner. There was a figure in the chairs, hat on head, holding a rifle in one hand, the other hand holding a blanket up as if to keep warm. It stayed like this, until the door opened, blowing a cold wind into the room. An older gentleman walked in backwards, as if to make sure that he wasn't being followed and then quickly shut the door behind him. Once he turned around, the blood drained out from his face, the barrels of the rifle level with his eyes. "Human!" Panic laced his voice, and he clutched at his chest, as he felt it constrict. Heart attack would be the preferable way to go now, seei