Spoils of Day 56

56.4

Her heart. 

A palace. 

Not twisted or dark. 

Empty. 

Yet many a visitor 

has lost their way 

orbiting it. 

Burned.

56.3

Our twisted words.

Dark paradises 

that will never 

come to pass.

The only way we bleed.

All poets are vampires,

creatures of shadows

in love with the sun.

56.2

Once more, I burn. 

You shy away. 

Only to return, 

to fall and decay: 

The impossible orbit 

of passion and disdain.

56.1

I search for your ghost in the most vulnerable corners; 

old shadows that new flames have neglected to claim.