Lilt of memories
evanesce into the night,
that is born of my death
like a withered feather.
I am the ghost of a rose
blooming in the heart of an obsidian moon,
upon the soul of a fading star.
Scars weep with stories, yet to be unfolded
while I just linger in this ageless agony.
And akin to an abandoned violin
that plays to a phantom presence,
I strum in a theater of nothingness.
Will there be something left of me?
When the darkness stops singing,
will I ever sing again?
For my strings are torn, with bleeding edges
while the notes have erupted in a dead symphony,
floating with the remnants
of a long forgotten music,
dancing to the cadence of sorrow..
Taking what is yet to decay,
and embracing the unknown,
shadows light in the eye,
while I crest into the waves of breathless verse.
And my soul whispers eternal words;
words that have lived inside of me,
spoken, never aloud,
yet they thrive, and grow,
like the tears of a widow,
who refuses to believe.
Ink stains the pages,
with the blood of my age,
and the letters drip with woe.
But my mind is free of it’s shattered mirrors-
those tormenting shackles long gone.
And with a haunting
ballad blown to the breeze
I look at the harmony of the befalling dawn.