For some, it becomes harder to let the light in,
The world seems full of ghosts,
Every face seen is a blur,
Every name known is forgotten,
A darkness consumes the world,
The only certainty is that scratching,
Behind an old wooden door,
That colourless place with stale icy air,
Where death resides.

Discover more from Dan Verkys
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
