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There's something wrong with life,
if all it can think about is death.
It feels sleepy, tired and alone
on the brink of vanishing
the rigid spine slouching on it's throne,
the starry blue eyes gazing with blurry despair
the weary old woman once so young and fair,
creeping and swaying the claws of death tear
at our minds, our hearts, our souls that bare
the weight of that thought
of eternity to scare,
the never ending cycle
of death and despair.
YOU ARE READING
Silver Dance of Poetry
PoetryHere lies a genre of emotions a sad, twisted emphasis on time something about finding people (yourself) and letting your soul fly free. I hope every word lingers in your mind.
