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by Nikos Laios
2018-02-16 08:09:23
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The creaking
Door swayed as
Streams of yellow light
Danced against the
Woodgrain of the ancient
Floorboards, as the rain
Rapped against the window pane,
The pages of a book open,
With tendrilled wisps of
Cigar smoke curling,
Rising up in the air.

He was slumped face
Down on his desk
Arms spread eagled
Clutching the cigar
In his sleeping hand,
To the ticking of the
Tall grandfather
Clock measuring
His dreams.

journey1_400Fluttering city
Dreams that
Wash along city
Drains collecting dried leaves
And debris,and small paper boats
That the local children
Made as they ran
Alongside them
Tracking their
Journey down
The street.

He had
Made many
Journeys in
His life down long
Winding country
Roads through
Swaying golden
Wheat fields,
On clippers
Cleaving the
Frosted chilly
Waves buffeting
Against the wind.

Journeys through
The cobblestone
Streets of the many cities
He had seen,where like
Odysseus tied himself
To the mast to resist
The charms of the
Buxom curved
And painted Sirens
Of the night as they
Swung around their
Poles seducing him.

He yearned
For an end
To his journeying,
For a final welcoming
Harbour to curl up in safely
Like a slug in its shell,
Warm and protected
From the world.

Now he lay tired,
Slumped on a
Mahogany table
Curled up in a deep
Slumber, with
Falling cigar ash
Collecting on his

To the sound
Of the rhythmical
Ticking of the clock
And the rapping rain
Against the pane,
With the gentle creaking
Of the door as a solitary
Cockroach scratched across
The ancient floor scurrying
To find his dark corner.

He had
Far and wide
And has seen it all,
The rise and fall;
Now he was bored,
Bored of it all.

His journeys
Were now limited
To diving into those
Books he so liked.
Into the pages
Of Jules Verne,
Moby Dick,
Faulkner and
He had become
A traveller,
A sailor
Of his own

He had his books,
The scratched opera records,
And the bottles of red wine
Collecting dust as they lay
On top of his bookshelf
That lined the whole length
Of the wall.

For now he had found
The most treasured thing
Of all, his soul,his authenticity
And his passions all swirling
In the depths of his
Sleeping imagination;
Floating like flotsam
And Jetsam in the
Briny blue waves
Of his very being.

He had
That the depths
Of his soul were
Limitless and vast,
That this was the last
Unknown frontier for
Him to explore.

Danced in
His subconscious
As yellow rings of light
Danced around the
Sputtering lamp,
Light falling on
The floor in streams;
Onto his sleeping face
And through the cracks of the
Creaking door casting long
Haunting shadows like a
Pantomime, as the clock
Ticked and the rain rapped
Measuring his dreams,
And glittering seams
That shone like gold
All wrapped in a
Warm slumber.


With a digital drawing from Nikos Laios


Check Nikos Laios' EBOOK
Ida & Her Magic Camera
is online now and you can download for FREE HERE!


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