"It's sheen glistens in mahogany strips.
It's tides malevolent as it's current rips.
Whipping ferociously its tendons stretch.
As it's fingers hold onto the victim, in a game of fetch.
Tears of blood, metal tinge remains as it invades your sense.
It stirs and covers the dropping,still cutting and jagging the wound as you are in pretence.
Trails of ashen dust and copper, he strokes it's waves with bones of rot.
Soaked dry, forgotten and lost, left and ridden in the rusty pot.
Never found, buried like all the others deep underground."
YOU ARE READING
Shattered
Poetry"She held on to the thorn knowing it would prick her, and grabbed on to it's roots knowing she would fall, but the hope that flickered in her eyes always seem to shimmer, nothing demolished it at all, she carved her art on the canvas and set the li...
