Bones lie beneath the earth, and blood stains my hands. Spirits surround me at every turn. Ancient tombs await in the sand, and flowers inside seem destined to wither. The rituals of old are preserved in canopic jars, and my own dark deeds haunt me, erasing all attempts at redemption.

I'm cold to the touch, embracing death and burying old grievances. Each harsh word, a dagger in my heart.

Alone, with a history of misfortune, I hear only static rather than clear sounds. Like a fly trapped in a web, I feel stuck in a cycle of despair. This life has given me nothing but sorrow, passed down from skeletal hands. My name means nothing to those who have sinned or ruled; I wander through a land cursed and forgotten.

I embody everything you might be if you had chosen the dark path. This poem, scarred and written with pain, speaks of my struggles.

I've been torn apart and left in fragments.

I’ve lost my strength, becoming a vessel of danger. Like a mortar grinding up remnants of flesh and metal, I've lost my resolve. I’m just a broken vessel now.

Cold and distant, I open graves and confront the harsh truths. I bury old grudges and face the harsh realities of the day. I speak the final rites and embrace the end, as I face the night of my own making.

You are a reflection of what I was, had you followed the dark path. This poem, marked by rust and pain, speaks of my struggles.

We have both been torn apart and left in fragments.
© Amit