Warning: this poem contain some topics that may be disturbing for someone, please continue if you feel it.
Continue to read the poem.
The body was laid down,
The hearth was sleeping,
The cold white skin
Dripping red from the wrist.
An empty bottle of rum
Near a bloody knife.
The young lips were full
Of the red of life.
His mouth barely open,
Just enough to let the soul escape,
To fully scream to the silent moon:
"Why can't I truly love".
