Thursday, December 13, 2012

Old Walls and The Piteous Pneuma.

Makers of a pseudonym look back in hope.
The doors of regret have closed upon their minds,
And the ghosts of the past outshine the darkness.

Death dealers stand over the edge with their forks of hell
I look around and smile at the familiar whiff of death -
as the doors of regret close shut upon their minds.

Pitchers of water are now empty
as squarling gashes appear upon the fray.
She has folded the memories in petals -
twirling them in isolation.

The doors are now ajar in complete melancholy,
Diluted thoughts seep into the amnesiac brain.
She stands on the edge of its entrance -
running her hands at scratches upon the carcass.

For the makers now feed on her hopes
Her dreams are now savored ambrosia.
And the old walls reek of reminiscence -
as the silver limbo cries out his name in vain.

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