She is dead and dying.
Her hands are worry worn-
The cuts and bruises she bore,
Are nothing but reminders of what came before.
She is dead and dying,
The demons had let her win,
But soon tired of their broken toy
And she soon gave in.
She was dead and dying-
But now she calls the darkness "friend".
She's dead, not dying.
They've taken her again.
YOU ARE READING
All the Notes I'll Never Leave
PoesiaDark poetry from a dark mind. Enter only to see the world from upside down, backwards, and behind.
