SoulReserve

An Epitaph On His Haunting

The phantom of his breath,
has hardly left;
He, who is living in my head;
Dead,
and alive;
A memory that rises,
with practiced lines,
that I recite,
over and over again…
polished with time;
Prayers
laced with cyanide,
some for me,
and some for him.
Erasing the empty,
isn’t a sin;
It isn’t suicide,
when its temporary.

© soulreserve 2015

(Inspired by my love for Coldplay and their song 42)

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