
a slattern covenant within herself had transpired; a promise once uttered to a cadaverous moon by the graveyards of nowheresville.
she cried in monotony, “never should i ever surrender thyself into the whirlpool of metaphors—not this time, never again.”
thereafter were the cryogenic gusts of the nocturnal wind whispering feathery utterances as the tears of an unyielding silhouette were dried along with its rhythmical tunes. raven crows sung with broken melodies and trees danced together with the breeze whilst she lies on her grave—and overhead was a blanket of the flickering star-studded sky declaring her death.
this was her demise; a soul achromatic to anyoneʼs vision with no colour left to bleed, crumpled papers of endless frustrations and scribbled chaoses, corpses of failed ideologies—whose death had long occured before hers—had laid beneath the graves, and a curse to her own-weaved words which inaugurated when her passion for rhapsodic tales and poesies turned into mundane taradiddles.
she was dead together with her ashed oeuvres.
she was dead when no muse sparked the flames of her burning passion anymore.
she was dead when she lost that adrenaline pumping through her nerves as she holds her pen.
for a soul of literature
dies twice;
once when they
stopped scribbling,
and this first death
is more painful.
YOU ARE READING
graveyard of buried souls
Poetrythrough feathered pens inked with blood and a scarred soul of overflowing abysmal ideologies; there sits an obscured entity, scribbling metaphors and ironies in a crumpled paper of her chaos, seeking for something out of all nothings. and here she u...
