Fickle and dripping,
the claws of the Dark
at the end of the hallway
have found me, sure and
reassured, I have lost
my balance, fallen
into air thick and braiding.
There is no cure, I've heard.
At the end of the hallway
there is supposed to be light.
I cannot, willnot, trust the darkness
when the darkness
is what made me fall.
Blame my halt, if you must.
YOU ARE READING
Her Blue Dress: A Collection (Watty's 2019 Winner)
PoetryA collection of poems, cover by: @itsmarrosee || I am the fray at the end of the yarn, cut from the new blanket, before it becomes a gift.