Wasteland.

I often wander out there in the graveyard,

like some spirit longing to escape from limbo,

pacing paths in the dirt between markers,

where I’ve buried too many beloved bones;

 

Every spirit belonging to every ghost,

even those bones turned to ash,

seem to grasp and reach from between,

a far-away future and most distant past;

 

the moon beams become enlightening,

through smears of the tears in my eyes,

the metallic taste of every drop of blood,

becomes a bile slowly starting to rise;

 

I wander out there through Eternity,

as the exiled daughter of some cruel God,

I wonder at heaven’s sheer insensitivity,

and at the end, can’t help but to applaud;

 

at the vastness surrounding such emptiness,

such an ice-cold touch of our creators’ hand,

the Dead have been warmed through the passing,

and the Living remain frozen in this wasteland.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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