Poems by Veronica Achlys

A portrait without a face,

A ghost without a spirit,

A phantom never feared,

An assassin who leaves no trace,

A song with no music and lyrics,

A form that was never mirrored,

I venture the dark alleys and streets,

Broken are the lights,

Each home is a memory of serene deceit,

I see the playground,

Where we as kids used to play,

I'm a writer,

A poet,

Screaming to the world that I exist,

I'm not a silent relic floating around,

Not some puppet to be fiddled with,

Not a sculptor's grotesque creation,

One of them is mine,

Showered with wreaths of lies,

Visited by mockingbirds who sing a colorless lament of bliss now unknown

In this long chapter of melancholy, be my sole happiness,

In my verses of madness, Be my tether to life,

To my sad melodies, Add the symphony of your blessed voice,

Pick me up from my everlasting void of grief, And pull me in your embrace,

From my realm of half remembered dreams and tarnished hope, Take me to yours of dreams answered and newfound hopes,

In this masquerade of deceptive faces, Be the home I can always return to,

Am I the corpse that awaits the return of a spirit

Or the phantom that disappeared?

Am I the murderer who saw the blood on my hands; and on my face did smear it

Or the imitation that to the eye dead appeared?

Am I the bird who chirped in the wild forest

Or the observer that despises it?