Too Good To Be True?

As the night overshadowed the light of the moon and as the ravens’ cries drowned the melody of the nightingale’s song, somewhere buried under the ground in a cellar was a poetic soul. A haunting rhyme echoed in the eerily silent basement. It was the voice of a little innocent boy, no more than five, singing a Gloomy Sunday song, ‘With shadows, I spend it all. My heart and I have decided to end it all. Soon there’ll be candles and prayers that are said I know. Let them not weep, let them know I am glad to go. For in death I am caressing’ you, with the last breathe of my…soul.’ His pale skin shone in the grey-light and his hollow, dark emerald eyes glowed. He lay there in the chilly basement, with not even a thin piece of cloth over his frail, bare body as he repeatedly sang the Gloomy Sunday song. He was beaten to bones and blood streamed down his fingernails as he unconsciously scratched the coarse floor. Lost in the haunted song he sang, lost felt his soul.