her fingers are raw,
her life is carved in.
they never saw,
what could be on her skin.
she snaps out of it,
the quickest of breaths.
the sweetening taste,
of a thousand deaths.
oh she will refrain,
cutting the fine wood.
her axe is too blunt,
her image too good.
but she will lie there,
counting the minutes.
bare skin will beckon,
testing her limits.
why are you still here?
the axe it will cry.
why are you not dead?
her people will sigh.
she doesn't know why,
her wrists are still whole.
she doesn't know why,
her death is untold.
she is a coward,
oh but she's so brave.
to walk through the grey,
with peace to her grave.
YOU ARE READING
D R O W N
Poesíawe want to burn and die to fill the page as delicate words and memories and what we want what we need in life is more poetry and less pain but it's only a glimpse into a forbidden world a beautiful scene sharp to the touch so take your look if you...
