She.
It's always her.
She consumes the dark in hopes that it will obliterate her mind, so she doesn't feel.
But her mind was so dark they fell in love.
As the dark colours embraced, he found the minds vicinity to be comforting so he buried his feet in the black sand and stabbed his sword into a decaying tree.
Like wet footprints he left his mark but no heat could possibly evaporate them.
The lovers inside her took control and began killing her.
What did she expect?
Black and Black can never make White.
-JRR
YOU ARE READING
Dying Song (poetry)
Poetryjust some stuff I made. !TW! Contains vague talk of SH, suicide, ED and general mental illness. -JRR
