This poem was something I wasnted to write for a few days and I'm glad I finally got to it. Enjoy and tell me how it is at the end please!
Memories, like clay, are molded in her hands
Taken, changed, added, she does as she is told
Nothings in black berate her
Yelling "memory witch!", "nobody!", "fiend!"
But she takes it, still molding the clay in her dainty pale hands
He is brown-haired and dopey
His heart is one of gold
He is her target, though he knows nothing .
No friends for hope, the artist shapes his mind, creating something beautiful, something new, something that never was
He walks along, forgetting friends and remembering false truths.
Those in black appear to halt his progress. moving clay isn't good for shaping
Her door opens, but she doesn't look back at it. Her work continues.
The brown haired boy is ready to sleep now and so he enters the pod.
The artist steps back to examine her work. It was her best, by far, but she wasn't happy. She didn't want to have to do it.
Warm arms wrapped around her waist and a blonde head rested on her shoulder
A smile crept across her face, inch by inch and her insides heated up
Red paints her face as a kiss is planted on her cheek. Red as a tomato, she is.
The blonde stares at the creation, wondering, watching
Their hands intertwine, a spider web
Together they walk and walk and walk to a place of eternal sunset
This place is where they stay, watching the beautiful event, love coursing through them
The artist frowns internally. Soon she would have to mold his memories.
She starts the next day changing his mind, literally.
His beautiful brain being polluted with lies.
But it's for the best…they would be together again.
After all, he promised. She would let him remember that.