Dark eyes looked on from afar at the gaunt face
Gazing down at the starlit headstone of the tomb.
He was unhealthy, unwell, ailing in the sense of the soul.
This crusade of apologising to every ghost he knew
Would only thin out the rails of his bone further.
He was withering under the weight of his morality.
.
It was a dark night.
In the absence of the moon, the stars could shine
With the fervor he remembered them having in childhood.
The smooth bark of the tree pressed into his back,
Ruffled the slick black of his hair as he gazed skyward.
Metal touched his lips and whiskey sloshed down his throat.
.
There were ghosts to beg forgiveness from but this,
This could never be one.
About the Creator
Silver Daux
Shadowed souls, cursed magic, poetry that tangles itself in your soul and yanks out the ugly darkness from within. Maybe there's something broken in me, but it's in you too.
Ah, also:
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Comments (2)
“This crusade of apologising to every ghost he knew” really brought this character into the foreground! Well done, Silver!
Withering under the weight of his morality. Love it.