Trouble Is, As Trouble Does

Trouble Is, As Trouble Does

by Keaton Foster



Trouble is, as trouble does:
What once was, no longer is.
What could have been
will never return.
Alone he stands,
no one near,
no one close—
nothing but a rope,
taut around his neck.
His hands, numb,
stained with another’s blood—
he didn’t kill them,
nor save them.
He watched them die,
each death more gruesome than the last,
a deeper emptiness
flooding his core.
Trouble is, as trouble does:
dancing alone,
singing songs half-known,
mouthing words he mimics
to feign their truth.
A ghost in the shadows,
haunted by echoes
of a light long extinguished—
every step heavier,
every breath a strain.
In this silent void,
pain alone endures.
Memories flicker,
flames in the dark—
faces of the lost
etch their scars.
Silent screams,
deafening pleas,
unanswered,
unheard.
He knows help won’t come,
yet knowing
eases nothing.
Guilt, relentless,
fills every hollow,
a burden borne
through creeping shadows,
a weight that deepens
in the quiet of lonely days.
He dreams of redemption,
of peace—
but nightmares cling,
unyielding.
In this dance of shades,
he claims his role:
a silent witness
to his own ruin.
Trouble is, as trouble does:
This is not about death—
he’s long since dead within.
This is not an end—
for him, no beginning ever was.
This is something vaster,
a single word,
a mountain of meaning:
Relief.


Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2008-2025