Before I read the grave’s etching,
The whispering winds blow colder.
My arms are heavy with tension,
Your hand of lead pressed on my shoulder.
I said my final good riddance,
Thinking you were gone.
Why won’t you tire of haunting me?
Vic, I plead with you, move on.
Your enflamed, bloodshot eyes
Effortlessly graze my soul.
Even from beyond the grave,
You still demand control.
Your body may pass through me,
But you still take a violent swing.
The illusion still has impact;
No trace of hope for the living.
In response to dVerse’s resurrection challenge found here