Life in Runes

Placid, dead lake;
Lone, dead traveler;
Walking along the banks;
Starlight dancing on the motionless waters.

Eerie patches of smoke,
spread pall-like in pieces
all across the glossy-black mere;
The hollowness of the night weighing in.

Dead branch-less trees in a clearing on the northeast bank;
Black against the moonlit backdrop;
Black in the day, charred and crumbling
at the foot of the hills that keep life at bay.

Dark, thick forest to the north and west,
crickets that chirp soundless in the summers;
screaming in the winter cold of the season befallen,
cheering for the scruffy silhouette that walks among them dressed in rags.

Gloomy swamps to the south, cutting across the cliffs to the east;
Marshes for the snakes and rats and mayflies;
Federation of vermin breeding in the bayou,
soothing the travelers lust for fornication and desolation.

Placid, dead lake;
Lone, dead traveler;
Limping with a walking stick,
going ’round in circles.

Partly crushed left leg;
Blood oozing from the semi-scabbed superficial wounds;
Shimmering red on cakes of black;
A shadow of the man who once ran free.

Relentless, the man’s journey;
Meaningless, to the world;
Painful enough to make the man cry,
yet beautiful enough for him to never stop.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar

Pen it... or aaa type it. u know what i mean.

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