I held the dagger in my trembling finger tips. Forged by the demons of my desire and polished by spite. I trembled not in fear but with anticipation, I knew of my sins but I've been told that water cleanses tainted souls. I trailed your veins, a collection of purple and blue pens strokes on a pale canvas. If I had stepped closer, I would have surely penetrated your soul, also I would have proven that we do in fact bleed red. I can't help but ponder the exact alteration made in my voice. Strings broke and I fell back into place. My breath cold and icy scented like frigid metal, ran down your spine. My famous last words were not a soliloquy of trailed goodbyes. I simply walked away without a sound.
YOU ARE READING
The Color Series
PoesiaA collection of poetry that's as intricate as the labyrinth of my mind.
