Characters: Unknown

Ships: None

Warnings: None

Short Description: Part of a poem series I may post in its entirety at some point.

Lichen growing in the cheekbone, poppy spreading in the thigh,

Wormwood never got further than the shoulder, but it doesn’t hurt to try.

Lavender peeks out from the femur, marigold curled around the waist,

They were there long before the skin and sinew turned to paste.

They say the ghost still wanders there, a specter in the frame,

Singing soft lullabies to creatures that never ask his name.

They say he sings to soothe the souls, knowing all their pain,

For it was once he who wandered to the forest, with everything to gain.

He knew his time was short, that there wasn’t much time to live,

For when you enter that deep forest, there’s more you have to give.

But he said he didn’t mind, when he held the poster in his hand,

Watched the paper crumble with time, till its edges turned to sand.

Ink bled out from the pen, words stained moss instead of paper,

His last words were carved in hickory, the letters growing to meet their maker.

He chose that place willingly, that missing poster held dear like a good old joke,

For only he knew that headline: “Charlie K. Lockesworth; The Man Who Never Woke.”