Fridge Poetry 5 - Death shroud romance

Imagine always knowing what is above ain’t for you and I.

Never has been.

Me and you don’t belong.

We’re no angels,

only people out there trying to as hard as we can,

innocent peasants,

full of grey hair.

Oh, but nothing.

The heroes don’t live our everyday.

They wouldn’t wander here,

won’t dream here.

If this is the tale of my life, so be it.

Let it be a death shroud romance

or an observation on death magic and crypt music,

an infinite escape from fire and dusk.

Here’s the truest thing you can hear:

this mortal life is all about broken luck and vulgar drama

and howling for blackness.

Erase it all.

Bitter and then some.

Stained soul left to languish in tell-tale torment

and infinite tomorrow.