Below the lowest parts of our world
there lies an ashen city
where darkness seeps through the cracks
And trickles down the wall like honey
Here hard-headed men toil in termite holes,
envisioning the golden flare they left behind
they seek other treasures now,
treasures, less potent when beheld.
There you will find a man,
Skin like grey charcoal
and eyes long since turned black
He is the ghost that haunts these passages
He is the fleeting footsteps,
The lonely shadow
The soul who digs through the night
And like a Spector, he is fading.
Driven by desire for a light,
A golden light that will unlock the world for him
Help him rise to the surface and higher.
And so he is consumed.
He has lost himself whilst digging
As have so many like him
They are the perpetual beat of shovels
They are ghosts of the Under City
YOU ARE READING
A Little Book of Big Ideas
PoetryI've decided to put together a little anthology of all little fragments I have written. The content may vary from mini sagas and poetry to short stories. This is essentially a place to share what I love doing rather then forgetting about it in vario...
