Graveyard

Disembodied voices follow you,

Cracked lips rasping out desperate pleas for freedom.

Decaying hands grab at me, fingernails grazing my back.

As we walk through this garden of sin I think of a time when there was still hope,

A time when I didn't look as sick as the corpses.

I fear though, that this gruesome mascarade will go on forever,

I will blindly follow you,

Because you know there is a way out.

You know.

I will silently, slowly, dig my own grave,

Because your face faltered, because the glimmer of hope in your eye is noticeably dimmer.

(This was a very slightly tweaked version of a shitty poem I wrote a couple months ago)