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Rated: E · In & Out · Dark · #1822617
This is my poem/run on sentence for the book 'The Great Gatsby' by Scott Fitzgerald
The withering rose,

Dying with grace under that magnificent sign,

Filling up the ash-covered ground with delight,

And the whistful sound of Anything Goes drifting higher and higher--

The breeze entwining itself through the ashes,

The ashes entwining itself through the breeze

As ashes sing of the grim phantasm,

Erasing the minds of the weak;

Pulling them towards the twilight,

A tug-of-war with my soul,

As if it is just an illusion, forming translucent images in my mind,

Forming and then replenishing, forming and replenishing--

Oh, how these images pervade my mind,

Leaving these horrid dreams

To last forever, lingering in hope

As I one day hope to find my security without these dreams,

But now it seems impossible to my blind eyes,

And there is warmth in the distance,

As I fall to my knees,

And hense shall I exclaim:

"For when I'm gone de with ashes, don't fill my grave with ashes,

but instead fill it with the distant starlight that lingers of the true me."

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