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".
