He whispers to the Silent Dead,
His former being,
Bruised and broken,
Bleeding crimson,
His voice now a shell,
Shell of his former being,
Saccharine manner strangled in his being,
A diabolical zealot.
He whispers to the Silent Dead,
Darkness cascading a veil of eternity,
A bloody rock resting,
Rock that crumbled his aspirations,
Rock that smashed his conscience,
Rock that shattered his will,
Rock that was painted,
Painted by the fragments of his death.
He whispers to the Silent Dead,
In the shadowed vale,
Vale of Sorrow,
Vale of Wrath and Agony,
Vale where midnight lingers with desire,
He whispers,
Dark mountains alluring,
Loom like silence of ancient singers,
Singers of faith long sealed,
Their haunting echoes,
Merged with the howls of dread and longing.
He whispers to the Silent Dead,
The crimson Moon high in the horizon,
A crimson scythe cutting through void itself,
Crimson light casting demons of the past,
Demons upon the surface,
Lurking,
As he feels the gripping rage,
A serpent constricting his neck,
Slithering venom.
He whispers to the Silent Dead,
As a crimson river does,
River whispering secrets and tales of never land,
Tales unknown to the firm stones,
A cold caress upon his lonely aura,
A symphony,
Symphony of Grief unsaid.
He whispers to the Silent Dead,
Forest of lifeless willows clawing,
Clawing the starless skies,
Their shadows stretching,
Stretching like wicked fingers within his soul,
Lost,
Igniting an unwavering flame within his head,
He whispers,
Words of the Unknown,
A million eyes of the lurking demons,
A million eyes that witness but don't see,
Yet captivate,
Yet judge,
Yet drown,
Drown in the embracing darkness filled with dread.
He whispers to the Silent Dead,
The meadows bloom,
Bloom with roses tinted with blood,
Wildflowers dancing,
Oblivious to the emerging darkness,
Bloodshed.
He is a captive in his own darkness and void,
His is the sole murderer,
Slaughtering himself every Moon,
A man alone in the world's cold embrace,
Every whisper painting crimson,
Every whisper silent,
As the silent dead witness,
Witness himself tears unshed,
As he whispers,
Whispers to the Silent Dead.
~ Sapphirus
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts of a Loner.
PoetryPoetry written by yet another individual just existing throughout as any other being like any of you, experiencing life and suffocating thoughts.
