And here she stands.
In this graveyard, standing, mourning the dead, death, her own death
Cold, Coldness around her.
In the coldness of her eyes, the winter shivered.
Darkness around, darkness within.
This pale, dull sky painted on her skin.
Stars that sparkle lost in her eyes.
Mind forming hurricanes of whys.
"Are you dead?"
The grave asks her.
"Are you?" She replies.
YOU ARE READING
Un-mirroring
PoetrySometimes loneliness is a blessing in disguise. Or so she thought.
