The Wilting

POEM IX.

i believe there is an art in being empty. screams, wrapped in surrounding silence. this world, infinite horrors, ignored by the ones fortunate enough to bask in ignorance.

there is a certain beauty in quivering bones. in the dying heart of a struggling warrior, the dusty keys of an ownerless piano.

the broken ones who keep fighting
the fragile ones who keep breaking

these empty ones
now echo stories
of who they used
to be.