I see the dead—they linger, silent and still,
Their faces curl like dark tendrils, clutching my will;
They whisper of realms where the torments cease,
And vow my suffering shall softly melt to peace.

At first, I resisted—locked every door tight,
Prayed to the heavens, shunned the deepening night;
But night after night, their haunting calls would enthrall,
With patience unyielding, awaiting my final fall.

They showed me the river that winds through the void,
Where memories drown and hope is destroyed;
Its waters run black with regret and despair,
As souls drift like leaves on cold, stagnant air.

I watched as they crossed with sorrowful grace,
Each spirit a shadow time cannot erase;
They turned and beckoned with skeletal hands,
Inviting me down to those shadowed lands.

One night I grew weary—the living seemed strange,
Their laughter too loud, their voices deranged;
The dead felt like kinfolk, their stillness a balm,
So I grasped their pale hand and drank deep of their calm.

We crossed the threshold where breathing must cease,
Where anguish dissolves into endless peace;
The netherworld opened—a kingdom cloaked in decay,
Where yesterday ravenously devours today.

I joined their procession, I learned their cold song,
I wandered dim corridors, silent and long;
Then—understanding struck like a razor-sharp knife—
I’d always been dead; I’d forgotten the bonds of life.

Now when I see the living—they shudder and stare,
They bolt their windows, whisper a prayer;
I plead, cry aloud, and call out their names—
But they flee from my shadow and fate’s cruel games.

I was once flesh and blood, with fears and dreams,
Bound by regrets and life’s unraveling seams;
Now a whisper lost in the endless gray,
A shadow adrift in twilight’s merciless sway.