A somber tide of pleasurably constructive apparent apathy. This is what I would call “literary justice”. For some reason. I don’t know what it means…



Murder, murder” – cries a grieving ghost,
Drifting seamlessly out of its host;
And though it pains to bid it farewell,
Eyes speak tales that I could never tell –

I saw bones sink in the filth and muck,
I saw scarlet on the river rock,
Weaving, waving, heaving ‘neath my boat –
I saw the cursed knife, I saw it slit my throat.

Murder, murder” – spelling in my name,
As if they were both one and the same;
The crows know it, they dare call me their friend,
As if they could make me kneel again.

Though my ghost’s drifitng away from me,
I hear the past calling incessantly;
And as it calls, eternal’ shall I listen,
Eternal’ shall I write murderers in my prison.

This entry was posted in "Poems".

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