Lurking now and then to its oldest haunts,
there’s a ghost inside of me,
sending shivers like lightning and thunder
to the sanctuary of my mind where
I store my stories in.
There’s a moorland residing inside,
with shadows of the past spinning my demons
into the wildest desire of an infinite dance,
playing plaintive notes never meant to be memorised,
in which I can weep for a lifetime,
and a familiar wind whispers through my hair so gently,
like an old lover whose
intentions I may not recognise.
I call my body a battleground where
I have been defeated by myself several times,
and I rise every time, from the ashes, like a baby phoenix
my tail twitching at the sights of the demons
still spiralling around the moor sights.
My dresses are sewn by strong women,
so I don’t need an armour anymore
but the war continues at the cost of my body
as the old wounds whisper curses,
like an echo in the empty mansions still
inside of your horizons, ready to crumble yet
standing patiently, knowing well
that one can only get past the darkness
by entering the fire.shadow


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s