Beneath the Ruins

Skeletal whispers
adorn the decaying ruins.
The castle entrance
is rubble at my bare feet.
Tall tower imposing,
encompassing all that
dare to view.
Voicing a challenge in a loud,
booming voice,
leaving tortured victims in the
dewy grasses.
The grey stone, antiquated.
Unbearable, to see in an instant
lives flash before our eyes,
to murmur silent prayers
in mute voices.
To make ourselves bleed on
the naked steps.
To touch cold stone.
To be a marble statue.
To die beneath the ruins,
leaving dry tears in silvery
trails.
Watching the faint mist
rise and engulf the dusty rooms,
The damp moss speaks
of achievements unheard of.
The terror of belief in a
ruin at our feet threatens
to flood souls in icy stares,
stirring crystal elements to
be strung around our bodies.
Touching the ruined past with bare hands,
my tears dry, reflective of raped feelings in the glass pond.
I lay down on the cold stone, clutching a bleeding poppy to my heart.