The heat of the summer is not quelled
By the blowing wind.
Sweat crawls down her back.
Wisps of hair are tossed about,
Some caught on the neck, wrapping themselves.
She strains against it, reveling in the pressure of her homemade noose.
"Oh, how I long for the grip of the rope,
The pierce of the blade,
The severing of air!"
She cries.
Veins broken, blood spilled,
Gnawing, thrashing, ripping,
It doesn't compare to the violence
Of words spoken against her.
YOU ARE READING
Dancing from the Page
PoésieA collection of poetry and maybe some prompts on random subjects. It's probably going to get weird. Don't get confused by the ducklings.
