not a blind thought, caressing the cloak of the reaper.
As you have gazed at the trees at night, so too
have the creatures in the leaves gazed back at you.
‘We do not worship the dead’ they cried, laughing,
and an echo flows past you, barely heard.
Should you join the ranks of the spirits,
crying out your regret in a vain attempt to be heard?
‘You must rebel against yourself’ the creatures warn,
curious what you will do next.
You search for a soft spot within your own self, but
what is there to feel? The wind, the barrenness?
A searing nova of heat threatens to blind you.
Crackled light, followed by pillars of black static roses.
Nothing left now; nothing left to cling to…
but only if you can reach out, you will find a hand.
Well, a multitude of hands, rising from the ground,
covered in scales and pinions, and red as a crimson sunset.
Voices, screeching from beneath the ground,
telling you unbelievable tales of glory, honour,
asking you to grasp their hands and they would show you;
yes, they would show you the way to their own grave.
‘Then the choice is yours’ the creatures tell you now,
‘live or die. We are only eyes waiting for the sun’.
Choices… always a decision to burden you again,
but this is an easy one if you would look inside your mind.
Live or die, walk or fall, strength or tears. Fear is your enemy
in the end. The running ruin of scattered thoughts
Invest yourself in my sneer, if only for a little while.
Maybe you will fade away, and truly know the scourge of living.
Born in Dublin, Ireland. Michael King has been writing since the age of sixteen. He likes to research anything to do with poetry, in any form, and because of this, his style has become very refined.