Scattered

Scattered

The novel's last page is ripped out,
shredded into a million pieces
that lay beneath your nightmares,
whispering thoughts of death,
echoing, alive with memories.

Scattered across the realm of fate,
you're soul is not yours to hold, but
the blood it sheds is yours to drink.
Running down your throat, choking
the light from your eyes.

Left behind by the ones you loved,
drowning in the devil's tears.
Must you forget the memories pain
no, for the demons will remind you;
a glint of silver runs.

Scattered is that of your mind,
for it no longer hears hope's ballad.
Across the devil's palm you run,
only to find his hand is closed,
on the lines of hate, you lay.

The whispers that call are haunting;
their cries mirror your own.
An image of you is laid upon dust,
where the pieces you have scattered
along the night's fading shoreline.

Descend upon the wind's secret,
look upon the past's course.
In your dreams you'll find the image,
you'll learn the truth of a lover's touch,
and pick up the pieces you've scattered.

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