the spicy scent of suspicion
and icy gaze of unease,
with her knife under her pillows,
and she sleeps without bit peace.
her dreams are filled with blood,
death and betrayals,
a tree ivy-clad and
the famous court of trials.
then she'll wake up panting,
hating her damned life.
she decided to stop trusting her own self
with her short but sharp knife.
because she might just found herself
cutting her own snow-white, pulsing wrist.
even before the others kill her,
she might just make her death a feast.
the mares are eating her,
dragging her soulless body to the lore.
and the death, the death,
the death is knocking on her silver door.
she's not ready to sing the song of death
and unending dance of fire and heat.
she might drown in eternal shadows,
and freeze in the middle of the feast
of her death– of her death.
BINABASA MO ANG
Snowdrops of Poetry
Poetry"maybe later, or much more later, the moon will finally give you the right to be with them once more, just like before." - The Stars are Winking at You Tonight this is my poetry.
