She rests in her seat,
Blond delicate hair,
She is the elite.
I snake my way closer,
Hidden from sight,
Her twig like hand twitches
In the pale moonlight.
I bend my right knee
And take her sweet hand.
I look in her eyes-
She's most charmingly dead.
YOU ARE READING
A Poem A Day
PoetryI will do my best to post one or more poems per day. Not the most original idea, but I'm doing it nevertheless.
