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