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 |    A book to house all my Poetic Explorations |
| My feet still trod those high school halls, where laughter used to ring, But now a phantom flood held echoes of disquieting. The waters churned, a swirling, gray unrest, And in my rising panic, father's hand upon my chest. "The river's rage has blocked our usual track," he said so low, His weathered eyes reflecting back the worry I did show. So off we turned, into a mist-laced world unknown, Where paths seemed lost, and fear began to deeply sown. Then came the dragonflies – not gentle wisps of summer's day, But beasts with monstrous, iridescent wings that slashed our way. Their eyes, like ancient jewels, held a predatory gleam, And terror fueled our footsteps in that wild, unsettling dream. With pounding hearts, we scrambled up a mountain, steep and bare, Father called out, "Flying lemurs make their murky lairs up there!" The thought was strange, almost absurd, amidst the rising dread, And then he chuckled, "Legend says their droppings taste like bread!" A fleeting smile amidst the storm, a spark of father's might, Then onward, cresting with the dawn's revealing, hopeful light. Below, not home, but something grander, bathed in golden hue, An island mansion, rising from a sea of deepest blue. The dream then faded, like a wisp of smoke upon the air, Leaving questions in its wake, and echoes of a journey rare. A flood, a father's guiding hand, and creatures fantastical and bold, Are proofs to dreamscapes where the wildest tales unfold. WORD COUNT: 24 Lines WRITTEN FOR: "Out of The Fog Contest-Opens Dec. '24!"  |
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