One Last Poem

The poem reflects a haunting farewell, where each word is a wound and every line bleeds anguish, culminating in a cold surrender to death's inevitable embrace.

Ink bleeds like wounds across this dying page,

Each line a scar carved deep with rage.
A scream too raw for mortal ears,
A hymn composed of fractured fears.

I write of ghosts that gnaw my bones,
Of sleepless nights and hollow tones,
Of love that festered, sharp as knives,
And memories that haunt like lives.

My pen is rusted, slick with pain,
Each word a wound that breathes disdain.
No light will dare to touch this verse;
It births no hope-just death’s fierce curse.

When I am done, the silence comes,
Like funeral dirges, black and numb.
Let death devour what's left of me,
For poetry was never free.