And so this maiden cries,
her saccharine lox; her tears falling.
Withering as a small part of her dies,
in her eyes the angel of death is calling.
And here inside the abyss; this darkness,
she sits down, talking to herself.
Wherein the mark that she does harness,
has cleared her off of her lonely shelf.
And she is found so fond,
glimpsed by the dancing hearts of all.
But her eyes are only a pit of tears, a pond,
from which she glimpses the sky in fall.
And now she drowns in a portion of sadness,
where her heart has already started sighing.
And now she swims in a chaos of madness,
where her heart has slowly begun dying.
For the maiden inside, is already dead,
and there lies a lonely heft.
For everything has, already been said,
and now there is nothing left.
YOU ARE READING
Poesy of Eloquence
Poetry❝ this tragedy is soaked with tears that dry the ink in my hands. ❞ ━ the poesy I've yearned to release ever since I taught myself to pick up the pen and write. ❝ for if the painting of my words be the garden upon the gate of heaven, glimpse them...
