Written with pens we dipped into ink jars we found in the cellar.
On wooden paper scraped in scribe from a time and place not taught to the children, why?
In my cellar did it hide?
Through my fingers chose to be shown.
A language lost under rocks and stone.
Above it built this modern home.
Ghost which etch lost quotes they roam, protect this secret, unspoken poem.
Possession as to serve the passing of a message, blurred, as in another language, words, which I can’t articulate, but into my mind, like a brand they’re burned.
Not cursive, glyphics, nor of tongue I’ve ever heard.
The accent is plastic, its mechanical, elastic stretched to connect the wheels which gave these creatures life upon a time. A place advanced beyond us, yet it passed long before, yes, my best guess is it’s from way behind…
Clielste, dotentagio frym bjar, Clieslte dote e’ fru.
Free your mind and the rest will follow, ghost like hip hop to?
Never mind the radio is playing upstairs in my sisters room.
Com dis plato, tome riato, plato tome siome.
Build a ship, to travel time, time ship will take you home.
Remember, metaphors aren’t always friendly in a poem…
Time could be a deadline passed, a ship the state in which you’re made?
God and Satan cartoon characters on the other side of this worlds gate?
The time to build may have passed, the world ended, back in 1988?
Follow the yellow brick, mind-trick, which was used as a test to, telepathically control you through, suggestion not conducive to your view.
Perhaps I wrongly deciphered the scribe?
Spirits guide me, lend me clues…
Alice fell into a well and drowned, the white bunny was a tunnel served to guide her up, on her way on down.
The Hatter, Queen, Caterpillar and the clowns, souls, lonely trying to keep her soul, stuck among unholy ground.
The language looked to me now as did the one I learned from the squares that raised me.
Knowledge came from my pen, I scribed, deciphered the script of the unknown.
Cliestle dotentagio frym bjar, cliestle dote e’ fru, oh yes, I get it…
A poem untangled from The One, yes, it said, a poem of spoken secrets lost we never knew.
I thank you, ghost, dwelling in the cellar, telling, spelling out the clues.
I knew there was more to the stories on the TV.
Not significant just yet, but it will do.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This poem is one which started when I was five: at least the story did…
It is a journey of the mind through time, from adolescence to adulthood, from pointless ponder to deductive reasoning. It also just has some my brain splash spilled all over it.
I am a writer, a poet and I love to play around with words to put rhythm and rhyme into a story. With the use of poetry you can make even the most basic story catch someone's attention. I have been scribbling since the age of twelve.