Darkness looms in midnight tombs, unfading in light of day.

Has it been a week, a month or more, matters not much anyway. ​

To fill the void, my thoughts consume and resist to render sway.

Until the point’s exhausted as to any other way.

The shadows caused by looking back persist and stick around.

To stab and poke and judge the fool to which they’re heartily bound.

Regrets can overpower a soul that's beaten to the ground.

With all the pain and sadness heard in the Banshee’s sound.

A lament as this, it latches on, a festering dark vine.

To wrap itself ‘round every thought and every gift divine.

To darken not only the soul it keeps, but the heart it would define.

And hurt beyond the point to weep, you ever would be mine.

By S.L. Graf

From: United States

Website: https://slgraf.weebly.com

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