The black tulip, a faded rose,
The burnt moonlight, the shredded prose,
The heartbeat graph, the highs and lows,
They dug a grave, and buried their woes.
The jagged cliff, a mighty leap,
She tried to jump, but fell too deep,
Serenity, the unknown scream,
Echoed off, the stars and trees.
She rose up in the pale moonlight,
Long black hair, the lady in white,
Everyday, she haunted their minds,
Suppressed tears, they burst inside.
Up the cliff, they said sorry,
Nicotine, heroin, maybe some molly,
Violent tale, blood and gory,
Small rooms, and, psychology.
Revenge is saccharine sweet,
Closed doors, and, murder discreet,
A knife, a gun, a monstrous feat,
Chopped meat, and, good wrong deeds.
Three down and one to go,
Black suit and a tightened bow,
The black tulip and the faded rose,
They are all gone, and no one knows.
...... (A/N)
Ominous much? Yeah, I know. Messed up everywhere.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
