Silver.
My pen dances, silver.
I scribble away in
The perfect shimmer,
The colour of my glassy mentality,
Moonlight on a frozen lake,
Silver.
Red.
It pours from the tip
Of the silver pen,
Confusing- why?
Why must this horrid red
Gush from the shattered silver?
Violent, raging, this horrendous
Red.
Magic.
I write it out in Silver,
But Red stains my paper, like
Magic.
YOU ARE READING
Words are Knives
Poetryperhaps night is dark to provide us less distraction from our nightmares. Ranking: #267 in Poetry #144 in Poetry
