This city is a ghost town.
No,
it’s a glassy graveyard,
with mile-high
ghost tombs.
The towers sway, soundless.
King and queen, crown-less,
carefully rule.
Tombstones… glow
with reminders,
reflections of lost days…
buried in the sewers,
so the graveeaters
and carrion-stealers,
can’t carry away
the rot
that holds us under. Pray
the rattled whisper,
our near-silent warning,
reaches the travelers –
sadly, our stones fail to show it.
“Welcome home!”
Those dirty, glassy faces
are all cold and hard.
But, in their eyes,
my epitaph is carved
in spider-web cracks,
bullet holes, and the regrets
of a misspent life.
Push around the dirt.
Hope to catch the glint.
I kept robbing the tombs,
looking for jewels,
but all I ever found
were fallen shards of glass
and not a single skull
staring back with eyes
of rubies.
©️ Obol, 2020.
