A darkroom of whisper
Solitary in it's surroundings
Lends itself to deeds and thoughts sinister.
Restless spirits cry in despair, moaning uneasily,
Reminders of times past,
When it was best to succumb quietly.
Blood stained, tear wet, pain dealt;
Walls that contained the misery,
Wounds and scars inflicted, injuries felt.
Where is Death's blessed release?
Sweet is the promise, slow it's coming.
Always, always, denied promised peace. by narcisse