The Strange Novel (Called Life) Poem by Agatha Eliza

Frozen claw-like shades descend
flowing down the walls, like a bride
of yore's embroided shawl
draped in the smoky trail of your breath
so loving, so tender, so warm
longing for an eternal embrace
pulsing through the blood...but
I am still here, waiting
barefoot, gazing motionless
in this empty room trapped somewhere
behind the illusion and the actual
behind the concepts of loving and being loved-
behind a symphony of giggles contrasting
the echo of the hysterical laughter
in the damp hallways of an insane asylum
marked on the pages of a long lost novel.



I hear the author is dead...so are
the characters; the castle is burnt down
but life springs through...
caressed by a glowing moonlight
and nourished by the rays of sun
growing stronger each time,
so determined to fulfill nature's cycle.
Isn't it strange, my dear? -
In the ashes you can still see
the marvel: a footprint, a faint
scent of wilted white lilac, a ghostly hand
struggling so hard to reach yours
an icy whisper from beyond
calling you to softly surrender
to descend, to abandon your body, to let yourself
dragged slowly in the vortex
of this strange novel called life.