He drags along the floor, pulling his bloodied soul. Hands that cannot be washed because sin stains the skin. For what he’s done can no longer be pushed beneath the soul of the deceased. He desperately yearns for help, but he does not deserve the help that he needs. Lives have been stolen and he’s done dirty deeds.
The silk blue ribbon ties around his wrist, as boulders barricade the hidden frame. The dagger trails amongst his skin, leaving scars to never fade. Screams fill the air as the morning tide hides the pain. He surrenders, kneeling to the king of death. But death will take him no more; there he lies on the empty shore. Knocking on the chamber door, his cry for help will never be heard. He’s left knocking on the chamber door.
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