the green shrubs in the manor-house window
the golden shine of her hair
the creak of the branch on which she swings
the eyes that watch her there
the blue nostalgia of summer rain
the deadness of half past four
the pattering footsteps upon concrete
the chilling knock on the door
the tiredness of the butler who wakes
the door is now open wide
the scream that never reaches his throat
the intruder steps inside
the finger that slides up the bloody blade
the feeling he's doing what's right
the tear that drips from their terrified chins
the harshness of the black, blue night
the last bedroom in the corridor
the footsteps are leading there
the door that silently opens halfway
the girl with the golden hair
the shadow that's cast across the wall
the knife is raised high in the air
the quivering of the blade as it travels down
the blood that seeps into her hair
YOU ARE READING
A Little Thing Called Death
Poetryi won't explain many of these. they are for you to work out and they'll probably mean something different to everyone. (i own these poems) ((FINISHED.))
