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“It Was a Dark and Stormy Night.”

“It Was a Dark and Stormy Night.”

dark and stormy

“It was a dark and stormy night,”
Or so the story said.
The underlying truth in those lines,
Was lost years ago,
Never to be recovered,
Never to be re-written,
Never to be re-examined,
Since a story is just a story.
Or is it something else?
Something incomprehensible,
Unimaginable,
So overwhelmingly powerful,
That it hides, undetected,
Inside the folds of the brain.
Seeping out in small fables,
Mystical waves of nausea,
Being written throughout the day.
A cryptic composition,
Of weekly sonnets and ballads,
That are never voiced,
Only written, then filed away,
To be squandered and forgotten.
Memoirs of a troubled youth,
Do rest inside the brain,
Filling pages upon pages,
Volumes upon volumes,
Lives upon lives,
That every person has lead.
Written.
Filed.
Squandered.
Forgotten.
Loss.
A great, great loss,
Since nobody reads anymore.
And the most important book,
Is the most cryptic one.
The most significant story,
Is the most secret one.
And the most consequential chronicle,
Is the one that lies written,
Yet never voiced, inside your head.

raining book

If you liked this, check out these other great poems.

A Silent Offering

Poetry Classics: The Raven, By Edgar Allan Poe

Lonely Horseman

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