Black Bile

The faint noise of shallow footsteps
echoes across these empty hallways
like ripples carrying Worth
through oceans of silk
and woven gold.

They beckon me closer to the emptiness
that lingers in the fading silhouette
that is softly traced still
in my since long abandoned bed.

I wore my self-pity religiously,
as if it were the cross of another charlatan
that speaks of faith and conviction
but cares not to love others;

for I am most zealous in my search
for an absolution worth praying for,
to guide me out of the silence
that pulsates and roars in my ears
now that she no longer sings to me.

"I didn't deserve this, I didn't deserve that;
if only that hadn't happened, if only it'd happened this way"

I hear others tell themselves
when they mourn the loss of their present,
and all I know is that I could never say those things,
because the value of my regret isn't that cheap.

The burden of my guilt isn't light enough
to wish it away with fortunes and prayers;
So thus do I envy them, for they do not know
the feeling of your soul being so diseased
that you cannot even ask for redemption.

Because in this world of pain
that is scarred with lingering vengeance
and washed over with blood,
no miracle nor any dead Gods
could ever bless me with providence;

We already live in damnation,
with souls so diseased that our only purpose
that guides our hope for a better future
only drives us to paint the present
in the blackest of all bile.