feverish shivers
crawl through his spine
like maggots
etching putrid trails of horror
onto his soul

regret lingers in that sense-
a quiet parasite,
fixed to him
like barnacles
to a sunken hull,
a perturbation
to the fabric
of a cosmos
that named him
an orphan to the void.

his ashen hands
had reached past the veil,
stumbling upon prophecies
etched in hell-burnt cadavers
of those who sought before him,
their warnings
scattered amidst hallways
stretching beyond the confines of time
he paid no heed

𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗱𝘀 𝗮𝗴𝗼𝗻𝘆
in hearts of the well-intentioned.
we’re all progenies of
some nefarious past.