Work Text:
I heard the soft pleas of death, tangled with the cries of the people who once stepped on
These grounds.
This time, it was
Different.
The pleas sounded...
Young.
I followed the scent
Of the voice.
It was raspy
It was hoarse.
I arrived upon
The milky-white
Steps.
Then,
There was a quiet
symphony of Noise.
I floated like
A wispy piece of
Silk,
But burdened
With human guilt.
She came into view,
Her frail form
held up
With thin strings
Of tendons
Her soul pulsed weakly,
A small amount
Of life left.
“I want to
See the crows.”
She whispered,
“And the trees
With charcoal-black
Leaves.”
I almost felt
Sorrowful,
for the first
time in centuries.
Her skin
Smeared with bruised
Paint.
“My dear,”
I said,
“I cannot take it.”
She reached
Out to
Feel my
Moonlit robes.
She gazed up
At me with
Eyes that belonged
Not to a child.
The Noise became unbearable.
She turned away.
“I can hear them.”
Her eyes fluttered
Shut, waiting.
Suddenly,
it stopped.
She froze,
shocked,
but thankful.
I left the house.
I left with not one soul
But two.