The higher the wings fly,
the harder the bird falls.
The brighter the eyes gleam,
the darker the eyes seem.
The more elevated the spirits are,
the deeper the hole of emptiness becomes.
.
.
.
.
.
There once was a hunted one,
eyes haunted,
head wanted,
dignity taunted,
whose existence is denied and unwanted.
There once was a haunted one.
There once was a haunted one,
whose heart was broken,
whose truths unspoken,
whose actions mistaken
for someone forsaken
by a society whose morals and judgements were taken.
There once was a haunted one.
There once was a haunted one,
a spirit regretful,
a mind revengeful,
a heart ungrateful
for a life only dreadful
and a purpose unknown and painful.
There once was a haunted one.
There once was a haunted one,
whose face was abused,
coping with booze
for her body was used
like a whore meant to fuck and seduce.
There once was a haunted one.
There once was a haunted one
whose goal is to hunt
for the things that haunt
YOU ARE READING
A Prose With No Direction
SpiritualA prose with no direction. A mind with no guidance. A human without a purpose. That is the kind of story I hate to be. That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.
