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ETERNAL GARDEN OF SHADOWS

By Bob W Christian



Forty years, an eternity carved into flesh,

Each second a ghost haunting the corners of my mind.

In the mirror, I see the boy who never was,

Eyes hollowed, innocence gutted by your hands.


The old white farmhouse, its paint faded,

A tombstone for a childhood lost.

You, a specter of rot and decay,

The monster I vowed to unearth.


Your voice, a sickening melody,

Tries to weave webs of pity and remorse.

But I am not that broken child,

I am vengeance personified, relentless, unyielding.


Dragging you through the threshold,

The air thick with memories of screams,

Your body, frail and trembling,

The fear in your eyes, a dark, twisted satisfaction.


Each blow, a symphony of bone and blood,

Your flesh a canvas for my rage.

You convulse, a marionette on frayed strings,

Every scream a note in the requiem of your sins.


In the barn, tools of torment rusted by time,

I find new purpose, each blade a deliverance.

I carve your guilt into your skin,

Every cut a ledger of pain unpaid.


You beg, a pitiful creature,

Words slurred through shattered teeth.

But mercy died with my innocence,

And I am the hollow echo of your cruelty.


Dragging you to the garden,

The earth cold, unfeeling, like my heart.

The shovel, heavy with intent,

Tears into the ground, a grave yawning open.


Your pleas, desperate, animalistic,

Fall on ears deafened by torment.

I bury you alive, the soil swallowing your terror,

Your hands clawing at the earth, a futile grasp at salvation.


In the silence, I hear your muffled screams,

A symphony of suffering, eternal.

The flowers above, nourished by your decay,

Bloom in grotesque irony, beauty born from horror.


The farmhouse stands, a monument to retribution,

Its silence a testament to justice served.

Forty years of shadows dispelled by your cries,

Now buried in the garden, your purgatory, my peace.


© Copyright Dark Poets Club

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