To Spell a Doom

Layers, and layers.

Mounted on a plank of exposed ingratitude.

Sewn with a hook plunged from within, filtering true hearts from the rotten sphere.

One that lies in the depth of what remains hidden from brazen eyes and angry fittings of shrinking souls.

They wander,

into the night

For respite,

into the hunting darkness that turns their lonely selves,

and their shells to sullen emptiness.

Hearts swell

Larger, and larger

To burst

deepening shades of sorrows

it was yellow then orange

darkening its trail as the journeying dusk

Their tears they carry in palms raised up to iron clouds

So their prayers may be heard

So their heavy hearts may be lifted

but

this echo of silence

this muted lightening spark

this blinding glimpse of sharp light

It screams back in apathy,

and ceases

Abandoned in their sullenness

Their finger tips they protract

Breaking without rhythm

as their forgotten remains

No one is listening. No one is coming

Image From Salon.com: Astronomers discover an exoplanet where it rains iron.