The Darkest Tower
Small things creep, unsettling dust
as they crawl along threads on this web of the lost.
A captive, I listen, shackled and bound
in desolate despair, silently praying I’ll soon be found,
bitten and stung and finally devoured,
freed from the pain of my darkest hour.
Skeletons embrace here in tragic repose,
swept into this prison by fate, I suppose,
cast out or ripped from sweetness once tasted,
deflated by love, now naked and wasted.
In silken shrouds they crumble and lour,
haunted by ghosts of last chances soured.
From life’s dazzling heights I slipped and fell,
screaming down through each layer of Hell
till I landed here, a remnant rejected
amid vestiges of kindred collected,
their sunken visages sullen and dour,
wisps as bereft as dead flies on dried flowers.
The torture of seconds – eternal it seems –
under still shadows stretches as emptiness teems
in this nexus of torment, this pit between worlds,
where black wings of death remain ever unfurled,
as torn from golden rays I cower,
cast to the keep of the darkest tower.
Copyright © 2018 Scott Kaelen
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