The Wanderer

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,

Author notes

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.


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