Hell is empty and the ghosts are flying

Poem by I. Blinkhorn

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Hell is empty and the ghosts are flying:
you know it because you've heard it
somewhere before, though it escapes you
right now.
 
The truth is I can't save you
I can pray for you,
I can cry for you,
I can reach for you through the past,
in memories when you were still innocent
and try to wrench you from there –
through two decades –
into here.
 
Your brackish ink has bled through to me,
stained my soul, I think,
when I try to live and dream
it's vignetted by a rim of darkness
– this is your legacy in me.