Loving death is the hardest thing I've done.
The grip on my heart is like ice running through my veins.
I lay on the cold hard floor
The darkness is enfolding me as I lie there scared and confused.
The sharp pain in my chest is ripping me apart.
Too many secrets forming in my mind,
With all of the tears I've cried
Streaming down my face, burning their indents into a memory
Then he comes, back into the darkness of my room.
I can see him standing there, with a sturdy stance.
His black cloak flailed at the ends.
The serrated scythe gripped tightly in his hands,
Shines as the moonlight gently touches it.
He bends down getting closer to my ear,
And as he speaks, my blood starts to boil.
He whispers in a low voice,
"I love you too."
YOU ARE READING
Dark Poetry
PoetryJust something new I thought I'd try. The poems won't really be gruesome, but somewhat of a dark side.
