Shrouded


They’re shrouded in mist almost

as dark as the shrouds

they wear to cover themselves,

to cloak themselves 

for their journey.

Shrouds like dusty abayas

uniformly grey,

shapeless,

bloodless,

formless,

lifeless

grey.

Only their mouths still red,

stained by their final feast.

The feast of what was left.

And now there’s nothing,

nothing any more.

No more.

Nothing.



http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/pdfs/SirensCallEZine_Winter2022.pdf



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