He was nothing
but a puff of dark smoke
rising from the burned heart.
An image in charcoal dust
drawn over the parchment of soul
in wide, dusty strokes,
sealed with the bitter honey,
smeared with the last kiss...
He was an orphaned whisper
in an empty room
and the long gone butterfly's empty cocoon,
rustling in the wind, abandoned.
Only a shadow of desperate deepness,
fragment of the dark void left behind the death of a star,
last image fleeing from the tear-blinded eyes...
he was a figment of love and lost.
Dyed in pain,
buried with the mothballs, deep
into the box of broken screams...
He was only a shutter of dream,
once dreamt, then painted in the shades of twilight.
Forgotten, broken and nailed to the past...
But still shaping the tears, running from her eyes,
he stained the streams with ink...
and they drowned the world in black.
Infinitely, irrevocably black...
Maylar © 2012