Vaulted Remains

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I keep revisiting that old cellar—
where all of the lost have been locked.

The dark, dingy space encapsulated them,
sealing them away from the outside world.

I’ve heard their screams—their cries
for sanctuary, for sanity.

Lunacy devoured their minds, leaving nothing
but ravaged carcasses and hollowed bones in its wake.

Now it gnaws at their conscious thoughts
and gnashes its vile, septic teeth in their desolate faces.

I fear traveling those fragmented bones
of splintered wood and hearing its creaking—its moaning

as I take each petrified step
down the skeleton stairs.

Besmirched hands grab at my ankles
behind every board, vying to pull me under.

I clench to the frail railing
and battle the fetid fingers that scrape at my taluses.

They yearn for the flesh, for the blood,
for the body. They ache for a vessel

to carry them out of the crypt.
And I offer them, only, that want.

I keep revisiting that old cellar—
to reminisce on the desires

that almost took hold of me.

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14 thoughts on “Vaulted Remains

    1. I still have an irrational fear of the dark. Actually, I enjoy the dark itself when I know I’m safe or alone. What I’m afraid of is what I can’t see, what may be standing in the shade waiting for me look away.

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  1. Every step we take from the past to the present could have been or can be fraught with danger and intrigue.Looking back always brings us to the present which is saying we have survived. Love your eloquent expression of the bad and hopeful. Peter.

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  2. Wonderfully written darling..

    i too, have a cellar, filled with some of those past demons, skeleton and what ever else was creeping around in my demented mind..

    Perhaps i should unload more?

    i see that you stopped by for a read.

    Thank you.

    hugs chris

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