My Soul Departed

He fades with the night, the shadow makes us three, He dangles from my rope with shattered sanity. When I exude with light and rejoice in the sun, he grips to the silent echoes from a withered thundering gun. He is the image in the mirror, a burning reflection of me, like ivy blistering, he scorched the faithful tree. He is the desert drifting to despair, clinging to life solely by the fibers of his hair. I often ponder how he found peace within pain. From the cross he softly muster, that “life was bitterly vain.” We were friends, we are foes, yet we can only be one. Now he lies dead on the cross and I held the thundering gun.