Last Fading Traces by Mark Carlisle

Monochrome

two tone shadows

of our former selves

are all that is now remaining.

Spectres

now only glimpsed

amongst the darkening shades.

Growing steadily ever more threadbare,

diluted in essence of subsistence,

dispersed upon a mourning breeze

so thin and insubstantial as

a bleak winters morning mist is.

Driven

unwittingly

into this realm

where time is no longer available,

like lost souls in a victorian asylum

their tortured spirits destined to roam.

Forever cursed to wondering

the vagaries of profound austerity

as they’re trying so very desperately

to somehow find their way home.

Relentlessly

Maggie’s ghost

chases them ever further along,

bedlams endless empty corridors,

until they reach

the darkest corners

of deprivation and depravity.

Hysterically

ironically historically,

here the past’s

lies written in blood

upon the walls of her mausoleum,

walls that are lined so thickly

with all of the cold harsh realities.

Poignant portrayals

heart rending screaming

depictions of fables.

Silencing

the excruciating starkness

of all of the repeated failings,

those heartbreaking,

soul destroying,

hope stealing betrayals.

Frantically

trying to fight the pure bare futility,

searching to find some final way out.

But any resistance just becomes

more fuel for utility,

until we’re all truly feeling

Goya’s scream

as a shout.

Run! Hide!

Try your very best to survive

then escape from

these soft warm embraces.

But paralysed prey

we’re wrapped up in a web.

So totally trapped in the

labyrinthine way,

knowing much too soon comes

the end of the day

it never takes long until all that is left

is just the last fading traces,

exsanguined faces.

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