Old Poem

I wrote this a while ago, I may have already shared it. I don't think I considered it complete at the time and so there is no title. Here it is in all its graphic strangeness:



You exist on the scraps of my soul,

Feeding hungrily on the carnage that was me,

Like a wolf ravenously devouring the remnants of kill,

You have so bathed in the blood of my death.

What I was, what I could have been,

I am but a shadow,

A fragment of bone in the grass that was once a majestic and prized pelt.

The whispered rumors of strength and beauty are all that remain.

You have stolen the future.