I woke up alone.
My bones dead cold.
No soul—
Nor ghosts roamed
the endless night.

I follow where the wind blows,
And sat under the stage light moon.
White stars cover the navy
and black blue blanket sky.
Scars on my right
arm starts to bloom,
like flower under the
golden night hour—
And soon, the moon watches
My lonely moments.

The wind cast crooked voices.
Speaking its tale of how one day,
I will be forever trapped under
their abandon shadows—
Forgotten and left to decay.
There I held a small blade—
The blade shines inner hate
beneath the weeping moon.
The wind trace its cold,
crooked word on the sand.

“To become free,
You must draw your first blood—
And soon comes the newborn dawn…”

Yet my shattered heart hesitates.
Slowly breathing,
letting go of the small blade
As I hear creatures howl
my fate,
my fear—
To which falls to silence.
It’s just the moon and I.