Forgotten

Bitter and cold, I find myself wandering through the ghost town of my mind

The rooms of these houses used to be full of life

Alters used to run around this manor-house, filling its chambers with laughter and song

Yet now, the halls echo with Silence

They say that one does not truly die until one is forgotten

If this is true, what level of forgetting someone is the tipping point for them to become “dead”?

I remember these rooms being filled, but I cannot recall the names or faces of the Forgotten.

-=-=-=-=-

I wrote this the other day…but the rest was filled with misplaced anger and blame. But I really like this part and want to share it

-I really don’t want to share my name yet