Endlessly slipping away from the world,
I float
midway dream and reality as morning arrives
with a memorial service,
with roses darker than black,
than ravens
and blood, the air becomes thickened as I watch on
against the backdrop of sleet
for some reason
I can’t seem to get inside the house filled with guests,
the wind
pulling me back towards the bucolic hills
where corpses lie forsaken,
in the amber glow eidolon laughs and points
as though aware of a secret unknown to me
the hills are a patchwork of mist
and silent screams,
where some travelers are more shallow
than the others
but nature doesn’t care about the deeds
of men,
in that moment I am thrown against the window
and I see my reflection
pale,
almost deathly white looking back
with hollow eyes,
just then the priest at the service speaks my name.

 

Photo credits: Priscilla Westra, Unsplash

Posted for Poems in April @ Real Toads