"A game well played"
Is what she might have said
If your ends weren't so frayed
And she wasn't dead
She would have patted you on the back
And grabbed hold of your hand
If her body weren't in a sack
And you were a better man
Your actions may not have killed her
She extinguished that candle herself
But you could have tried to stop her
Then she wouldn't have lost her one and only true wealth
So now she lies on an ice cold shelf
While you are tucked into your warm feather bed
The bed she made herself
But you still have a hell burning in your head
You can continue to live your hell on earth
While she lives the life she has always deserved
And you will be reminded of your tragedy
In the mirror everyday
Well enough she has said
And it may be your turn to wish yourself dead.
YOU ARE READING
Bleeding Ink
PoetryI will not pretend to be a poet. I simply lace letters into words, words in verses and these verses are my feeling which have slowly bled through the pages of my notebook. This is my "Bleeding Ink".
