sorrow, such painful sorrow
lingering,
forever burdening
like a persistent pall
over a once thriving field.
Enter,
the haunted specters
of sorted days wasted,
cursing their sullied past,
grieving for lives
now vague and distant
like a wisp of fog
on the horizon.
Never will they return
to this plane of existence
we call life,
ever they are doomed
to drift
like clouds of dust
through grim ruins,
singing their sad lament.















16 old applause
