ghost story

The stench of stale death, clears way for the vultures, 

The world’s structures and balance have collapsed 

To the rotting, leaving behind a hollow wasteland, 

Nothing left to survive off of, just a war for ground, 

Life, has nearly been eradicated, the war, is its completion, 

One survivor, stays nomadic in his march, aimless

Through minefields and raging battles, leaving stains 

To be buried by the forthcoming windstorm, wailing 

Against the rogue warrior, who does not break stride, 

The world is lost to storms, clouds above the futile 

Rage of these citizens, continuing their efforts to take, 

Yet here is a man, who travels the scorched barren land

To escape the ghost in his mind, haunting his deconstruction, 

Before the end loomed over, he had light in his eyes 

That was illuminated, by a sweet drift, from her kiss, 

Torn out and set aflame, with only her ash left, covering 

His face, refusing to wash it away, it’s become his shadow, 

Tightly gripped until he discovered his heel, she’s his ghost, 

Trying to vanish from her grasp, as she holds him to the fire, 

In life she inspired him, but in death, she drags him to hell, 

Everyone is in war, where his war lies, no outsider 

Can be ally, for sometimes, we are just the collateral 

Damage, in someone else’s war, against themselves.