Not long ago, I was travelling on the road,
With these heavy burdens on my shoulder, I load,
But then the path was covered with thick fog,
Like water surrounding a tiny bug.
The road vanished beneath the grey,
No landmarks—just my own decay,
I walked... but something followed me,
Not flesh—not blood—but memory.
The fog is suffocating,
Like a hand, ever-tightening,
But tighter is the hold of the past,
Around my feet, as it comes to last.
The air tastes like ash and old rain,
Every step sinks deeper in the stain
Of choices I can't undo—
This fog? It's where I belong. Not you.
Slowly, I've started to embrace the shackle,
Smiling hopelessly as I begin to ponder,
These monsters behind me continue to cackle,
In these hills of haunted mem'ries I wonder.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
A Few Things in Verse
PoesíaThese are some of the poems I've written over the years. Some came from things I felt. Some came from things I imagined. Some are weird. Some are random. Some just came into my mind. Others came much later, when I had a better idea of what I wanted...
