The whimpering of mortal souls
Unheard by the angels of heaven
Blood spills upon black cloth
Closed eyes see the gates of Hell.
Tortured by a lost mind
Deliriously laughing, bending to insanity
Grabbing her blade and striking again
The pain will have no end.
Black cloth now a skillful artwork
Blood flows continuously
Bat away the shredded hands
And blood is the way.
YOU ARE READING
The Lost
PoetryThis is for those with the swollen, tired eyes. This is for those who wake up every morning and cries. This is for those who are abused at home. This is for those who feel isolated and alone. This is for those who have attempted/have committed suici...
