Seven fingerprints,
found on the glass,
seven fingerprints,
found near the blast,
seven fingerprints,
on the neck of a detective when he breathed his last.
Monsters aren’t real you say,
it’s just your mind playing tricks on you,
monsters aren’t real you say,
none of the sightings are true,
monsters aren’t real you say,
so I guess the blood splatter is imaginary too?
Seven fingersprints,
on your dresser draw,
seven fingerprints,
in your room they took a tour,
seven finger prints,
turns out there are more,
you discover as seven pairs of fingers slaughter you in great gore.
YOU ARE READING
A Gaze Through My Reality-scope
PoetryA collection of 100 of my poetry works which are available on other sites, with a few exclusives.
