[15] AN ASYLUM FOR OUR DOWNFALL
Please tell me you understand.
And if by any chance
you are haunted the same way,
then please, tell me again.
Tell me I haven't gone insane
when all I see is blood blood blood
in my hands for the crimes I did not do.
[Or maybe I did.]
YOU ARE READING
Witherland
PoetryAgain: precarious. When blood remains, I see the world tripping over the edge of the sword, red and forgotten. They drop, drop, drop-- balance. And we fall endlessly. [a poetry series by alice © 2017]
