Scattered whispers all around,
Stains of crimson on the ground;
Countless faces looking down
At the woman in a gown.
As the white turns into red
From the blood the woman shed,
A man looking turns his head,
With no pity for the dead.
Not even the slightest fazed,
Or at least a bit amazed,
He knows that he could have saved
Her while she was still enslaved.
But his heart was since long cold,
Crushed and broken by the world,
And he couldn't get ahold
Of his soul, that he had sold.
So he let the woman die,
Underneath the cloudy sky,
Murdered by a passer by
As the man turned a blind eye.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryI don't know how many people do read poetry but I'm going to give it a shot and post some of the poems I wrote. They're not that good since I actually like writing stories over poems but still what could could go wrong, right? :)) Anyway I hope you...
