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Luka Farmer

Ligeia

Poor puppets pass me by like phantoms. They are so strange and pale. They sing a monotonous song that makes the night so cold. Each of them is tied to their heart. Do I wear a mask? If I do, it is a crimson mask. I fear only the void of crying torments. Not strange dreams of weighing darkness. Or travelling on a journey to where nothing exists. I do not fear the strangely dressed shadows eating death. My entire being is filled with a strange Ligeia. People around me depend on me, but would soon rather forget me. Those poor puppets...

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