The Hour of Shadows

Alas the hour of shadows consumes my daylight thrift through the hours of wakening torture with a creeping pace, acidic light shunted from corners as the numbing dark pours from the smallest point, the most minor pinprick of subterranean callous becomes a crushing blight of depressive shades in the ever brightening sour of a day turned painful exposure.

Bring forth the shroud of a darker presence from which the joyous revel of cheerful exchanges corrupts to deathly whispers, a scythe in hand of the hollow fingers that effortlessly pierce colourless skin to twist a heart of poison purpose, alas the drunkards verbal assault of undervalued verse is heard in serious tones as the wise mans opposing words of a life terminally infected.

Living dreams a maze of wasted wishes, each a seed on the edge of perilous shores notorious in their legends of men turned cold by a single sting of her ruthlessly forged tongue and vainly crafted sceptre, no more to be termed the foolishly inspired humans that first explored the ideals of love with inspiring words, such things that once dreamed are twisted mockeries of honest nature.

An inescapable shade

A faded ghost

A wasted creature

I am but the only survivor, without form and cursed to be a humble shadow

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