Originally Posted by
L.E
Lost Paradise
How long had it been? The steps, hollow echoes in halls,
Ascension is tall, roof casting shadows, light bends on the walls.
Cinnamon! Tingles nostrils, and the scent can convince a grin,
Transfixed within, joyous thoughts like warm breezes swim at skin!
Love the way you're engaging my senses man. Sight, smell, touch, hearing, even taste. You touched upon every single one of them. Got this slight humanistic touch with 'tingles nostrils' and the scent 'can convince a grin' -- that personification was excellent and it even adds on this human touch that we understand the character. We GET that moment, that relation of smell can make us smile at a memory or thought. Brilliant opener. Multis too, the rhyme scheme was nicely put and flowed right along.
The edge of a dream, candle orange, shadows wedged in between,
The message obscene...
...to some, it would be a nightmare depending on which perception was seen...
Stumble across a room, in the gloom one could not fathom a gasp,
Cave, a labyrinth of traps..! Canyons, places and with chasms so vast!
Dreams. I love when we deal with dreams so I'll bite. Again, the visuals. I'm on this journey through the corridors. Candles in the darkness. Then boom, we have the concept of the nightmare and that a nightmare can be considered differently from different points of view. Some might find a nightmare to be a good dream. Is it the horror or the foreign that we fear; or even both? The gloom. Afraid of the dark, you put it so nicely with your usage of words. It's like we're near the dream and about to jump right in.
Blast! A ray from the gates, amazing, racing, transformation of states,
Color, cavernous wastes, with face that only one's imagination creates!
It's plain, the loosed chain has the plane, deeply sculpt from the brain,
Visions obtain, lucid frames, alive like dragon's breath engulfs into a flame!
And bang, there it is. Inside the dream where we don't know WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING. This is exactly how a dream feels to me. This four lines is different than the others and is abstract because most of the time, our truly strange dreams are just like this. The caverns have faces that only our imagination creates. The depths are limitless, and images only restricted by what we can think of. Really nice.
Stunk, were the stains. Lost in trees, hide like a gecko in vines,
Reckless design, a child's thoughts warm like how peace echoes in minds.
And then one may grow old, victim to some monstrosity's reach,
Images, glossy as creeks, back to when an infant's first curiosity's breached...
Oh, I'm noticing the switch now. How do things change when we get older... Our dreams might have been purer back then with a more 'fantasy' dream land of dragons and vibrant colors and such. But then...
A flicker, a picture, the ticker unwinds, a slicker design,
The fixture and mixture, the mister entwines, the liquor to spine,
An instant, the infant, a sinner in time, is sicker in mind,
The caves, in flames, now thicker in grime, a twister's incline!
Experience and age dips us down into the craziness. Madness of twisted sickness in our images, painting pictures of evil that is limitless. The rhyme scheme here flows very nicely. Beautiful work here, L.E. You came to ball right now.
The names, and dames, flames! Again, caged or be damned!
The nature of land, bouncing from a boy, on to the rage of a man.
The pages in hand, the taste, all that is drummed from the case,
Corruption in wastes, seeks to suck all good that comes from this place...
Boy to the rage of a man. Kind of like when we're kids we never really get angry. We're able to get mad but get over it so fast. We don't hold grudges too often, or when we do they drop like that. But once a man, we have this feeling of anger that is just there. A lot. That anger can be a corruption that sucks the happiness we do experience.
For the walls are the thoughts, awaking the haunting of clots on the cots,
Jot the dots in a trot, before all that is bought turns them to rot in their spots!
Stamped! Traced, and all that is creative is then stopped in the eye,
Flogged in a line, before the judge, individuality cries as its left lost and to die.
Childhood creativity, childhood imagination, childhood individuality, all of that left to die. Innocence lost. Effectively stated, L.E. This might not be the most original of all subject matters, but you've handled the concept with your own individual strokes and your individuality shines through with effective imagery and skill.
I realize I am me. Wandering deep into the depths and the cracks,
Of memory relapse, of my life and it's themes etched into the tracks.
Tossed into colds, warmth lifting before the frosts and the snows,
Forgotten in woes, the child's paradise that we've all lost in our souls.
Kind of a bittersweet ending. We know that our childhood paradise is lost in those woes and the snows, but at the same time I feel like 'you, the narrator' have come to a realization. You are you. Everything is okay. We can move on and things will be better. Just really strong stuff all around here, L.E.