What dark and morbid thoughts art these, whispered on a moonless winter night of stampedes of departed souls?
What of these slurred echoes of night's rowdy children steaming off loose lips, loud as those barking dogs frowning at lost ghosts?
Or has death's stroll become so candid, that they'd curse in loud voices when the dead are shrouded in their nightly excursions?
Has mourning crusted a rotted mask on only the faces of the bereaved, a mark of un-birth spoiled in mocking feasts of those who forget death?
What sordid nostalgia is this, roused at this hour of woken stories of loss and dragging dreams; when faces fade into torn caverns of our flogged souls like smoke into the void of night?
What chapter is this, from a sinister comedy of botched lives strewn across time's shanty avenues named like tombstones of wizards massacred through hunger?
Is this yet another tale of ended bliss and sorrows to be cupped with tears of reminiscence?
Are all lines written in blood meant to dwindle and smudge into pages of memory, only to perish into mortuaries of occupied hearts and mazy graveyards?
What dark and morbid thoughts art these, whispered on a moonless winter night, when forgiving oneself art is a sole gift for the departed?
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