My thunderous heart roams a dead and forgotten land, longing for her voice, to guide it home from its shipwrecked solace in the sand. She is a burning visage, the only vision at my godforsaken end, a haunting future foretold by a bitter poet’s tongue, the teeth marks upon a feeding hand.
To dust, I crumble as I claw my way back to her open outstretched arms, She was a lighthouse upon the horizon, a beacon silhouetted against the dark, But she isn’t real. And if I can’t believe in her ghost long enough to find my way back home, would I not be living proof that in the end we all ******* die alone?
We all die alone. We all die…
This is the first poem in a collection called "Sink On, Sweet Abyss".