Wither, Perish
The night is the blackest
and the coldest I've known.
The town, so small
it should not be called a town,
is still with its own malice.
I have grown weary of the city
but still, it is too still.
There is no moon
and there are no stars
and there are no clouds
to hide them from my sight.
Only unexplained dark.
The spine of the town
is a dirt road that I cannot see.
Just as well.
Pestilence has touched the land.
It drives the people
to rebellion or terror,
or cleverly reasoned apathy.
The townsfolk do not regard me,
nor should they;
they are depraved
and I am deranged
and between us we'd only
kick up a murderous fuss.
No streetlight shines
and no window glows,
here the people
are best left undisturbed.
How did I come to be here ?
No matter. Here I am.
In the still and in the dark
and in the otherworldly cold
I hear my bones rattling,
nearly, though not quite,
so nearly pleased to be alone.
16th July 2020
Copyright © Lawrence Sharp | Year Posted 2020
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