Where the Lightless Go

The taste of bitter thoughts
is heavy on my tongue;
a fear of dying early,
before I was ever young.

A lazy, drawling shadow
hangs morosely in my eyes
as I play a film of doubts
and of my repugnant lies.

In my hand I hold a whisper
so grotesque it burns my skin
as endless silver moons go by
and I can’t stop listening.

It draws me toward a silent veil
lit scarlet by my empty mind,
each step a dragging, aching thing
while my last lovely dreams unwind

and leave their strings behind me,
thin and brittle in the snow.
The white night pulls me far away,
where all the lightless go.

In the time-lost winter valley,
my world is cradled by the cold.
Breathe out, and out, and out again,
yet still I fear my heart grows old

with all the whispers in my hands,
and though I know I cannot run,
were I to live a thousand years,
I'd only wake for one.