Across the somber swollen silence
through a sunken heavy door
sits a man in silent violence
whispering softly, "Tell me more."

The clock ticks long, the hour tolls.
The man, he sits and shudders.
Reminding him of time he stole,
the ghost sits near and utters.

Golden quiet pours inside.
A dove in flight calls through.
Calling to a mind that hides,
broken neatly into two.

Twisting, turning, tugging dreams
cage both mind and madness.
Haunted, damned, broken he seems.
He wants to fade to blackness.

Atop the desk, across the drawer,
marks break up the gloss.
His fingers bleed all the more.
Yet he only recalls his loss.

A ghostly hand reveals itself,
her name comes in his sigh.
The hand is as soft as pooled felt.
Only now does he begin to cry.

Grace had died out long ago
or so the man had thought.
Seems he'd been his only foe
and the pain that he had wrought.

Drifting slowly, far away
he walks toward the golden dawn.
Shadows behind him fade to grey
as he passes into the beyond.