A dew drop suspended on a blade of grass
The timless rustle of the changing leaves
The flurry of cold rushing past
A blade poised above flesh
A river of red, trickling off fingertips.
Maybe this is how it's supposed to be
I always thought...
But no longer
No longer to be.
They say not to dwell on the past
They say to let it all go
They say to move on
They say...
But maybe-
-maybe I don't care
I don't care
I am alone
A/N: Written in a flurry of red
YOU ARE READING
A Few Pages from my Brain
PoetryPoetry from the brain of one SilentDream. Including imperfection, perfection, life, death, and love.
