A Book of Tales


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2. A Tale of the Damned

It was dark, 
just like every other day 
as he tossed and turned 
and wasted his life away.

He couldn't see it, 
none of them could, 
that the way they were going 
was doing them no good.

He got up and stretched, 
scratched his stomach, 
ruffled his hair, 
took one look in the mirror
And hated what was there.

It was a never ending cycle, 
this depression of his, 
so he slept and slept 
to get over his fears.

There wasn't anything to be scared of, 
except for his own demise, 
but part of his illness, 
this mental strain, 
was seeing things 
that weren't there 
in his dull, apathetic, eyes.

Ribbons up ribbons 
of a crimson metallic red, 
wrapped around his arms, 
his legs and bed. 

The glint of an object 
mockingly glared, 
its twisted sharp edges
did nothing but stared. 
It purred its malicious voice, 
called out to the broken part of him, 
the promise of pain 
an end to his suffering
as it sung its demonic song of sin.

That's how they found him, 
drenched in his own blood, 
eyes dead to the world 
as he lay there and sobbed. 

But no sound had ever left his lips, 
just tears staining his cheeks, 
and then they let out a cry of horror 
as they stared down at his lifeless body 
that had been there 
for weeks upon weeks.

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