Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
The hands swing by
as someone told not a lie
Pitter-patter.
Pitter-patter.
Pitter-patter.
The rain cries
as they sharpen the knives
Tap . . . tap . . .
tap . . . tap . . .
tap . . . tap . . .
A finger moves
wonder whose?
Their fingers grip the blade
before they can even fade.
The blade in their hand
bound together, like a band.
. . . silence . . .
. . . nothing but silence . . .
STAB!
their core
and nothing more
slicing downwards
then upwards
Drip. Drip.
Drip. Drip.
Drip. Drip.
onto the floor
towards the door.
There it laid
where it made
a pool of liquid
when they rid
of a ripe strawberry
for the merry
and for the things
we call demons
YOU ARE READING
My poems
PoetryI tried if nothing else i'm not good nor am i okay but oh well i tried if nothing else