Grim
He stands behind me,
Scythe in hand,
Waiting,
For me to give in.
I'm grasping reality,
As it's slipping
Through my fingers,
Like sand.
No matter how tightly
I cling,
My life is too small,
To hold on to.
It, like my heart,
Has shriveled,
With no more love,
To share.
My hand slips.
Perspiration,
From the heat of
My emptiness.
I can no longer
Hold
What little
I relied on.
He stands behind me,
Scythe in hand,
Watching,
As I give in.
YOU ARE READING
My Heart's Prison
PoetryThis is a collection of poems from a harder time in my life. They are not exactly joyful and have many subjects that people try not to broach frequently. These are very personal, but I hope that other people out there can relate. Thank you for readi...
