Spirits

Crimson lips

dipped in poison

whisper pious words.

Head bent forward

prayer of supplication

no need to fear.

Cross to bear

my own.

Hatred to shed

yours.

Unsure if I am able to go forward

without the abuse of your dead.

Walking amongst the forgotten

fingers trailing

whisping frost

disintergrating

from my warm touch.

Each spirit I stroke

echoes  a plea

‘let me go’.

I look to release them

from this plane.

Forgiveness is not required.

I see thickened strands

black shadows

acting as shackles

keeping them close to me.

With a single thought

I unlock each one

allowing the spirits to flee.

Sept. 7/18

Photo by Michael Weidner on Unsplash