the lonely corridor of your soul,
the weed-filled path which leads you to it,
the road not traveled which you should have taken.
Then there are…
the memories held in the trenches of your palms,
the memories thrown out the salty rivers overflown,
the memories forgotten in the wasteland you made.
And then there will always be the light waiting.
You the still shadow, standing behind me.
Silent and begging,
as I wonder at this tragedy.
That I must shun the light,
for that is where you can live.
And embrace the dark,
where you cease to exist.