The chariot is a hungry beast
Like the last ghost of Dickens
Assembling itself like a platoon
Growling out, muffled air.
The ravages upon a beaten road
If the havoc of rain was any less
To match the grave thunders
Mourning the unknowns, he treads.
Myth of worm-eaten parchments
or the spine-chiller of campfire nights
Haunting the hour of 4 a.m.
but never a legend to be revived.
You remind me of a ghost sailor, I say
or perhaps, the myth of one headless rider
And while the freedom came to these,
You became that never-ceasing dream.
His prey is a dimension and not personas,
For they say he thaws all the glass as he treads
It is curious for now my heart skipped a thump
when I noticed all our panes, Dangling but in,
Myth I created on my own- The chariot of a spirit that is cursed to travel around whole earth, sharp at 4 a.m.
- © Priyanka, All rights reserved.