Upon the face of the bare earth
There lies the corspe of a girl
Who was dead while she lived
For her heart had stopped beating
Eventhough she breathed
The Moor is dark and grey,
Solemn as she lay quiet tenebrose
Under the sky of May
She was Skylar, a strange figure
Lost in her own world
Of daydreams and fantasies
But sometimes one could hear at night
Her screaming and weeping
Saying she heard voices
Yet no one believed in her
Poor soul became a lost entity
Like a ghost trapped in her head
'is there no escape?' she asked
Have you gone mad, they said
Have I?
Tears rolled down her blue eyes
Sadness and grief were her friends in bed
The monsters came to her aid
Tearing her soul apart
Till they were scraps and ashes of a dead cigarette
Her soul turned charred black
There was no joy or ease in the midst of this apocalypse
People were afraid of her said she was a grotesque monster
'I cannot control the thunder raging in my minds chamber'
her sweet cacophonies filled the room with a defeaning and murderous silence.
At night she read only to go insane very second.
Till one day her agony ended when everyone found her dead under an oak tree hanging with a note,
'there's a devil and a god raging in me and the demons control the key to the terrifying Palace of mystery'
The voices now remain silent for they are buried in hearth, no more rebellious or defiant but a strange calm before a storm, they wait their turn to be reborn.
YOU ARE READING
Moth House
PoetryCorpses of words which had been dead for a long time. Where Home eats her own existence and memories float like dust in the air, with dangerous nostalgia
