Her ghost screamed into the sunset dreading another infinity
of padding between the sleeping forms of all those dreaming of escaping
to other worlds when she'd give anything, if she had anything left
to give, to get back to the world they live in. They say memories haunt them
at night, but it's really her screaming anguished nothings into their ears, enough
to drive anyone mad if they could
hear her. This was her hell.
Her ghost wailed into the sunset.
YOU ARE READING
Ink Stained Soul
PoetryAnecdotes and snapshots of life, sometimes mine sometimes based off of other people, events, songs, books, etc. I hope you enjoy it, but more than that, I hope you can connect with something bigger than all of us. After all, isn't that the point of...
