Little red, little red
They chant out loud
'Til she lifts her head,
So pretty and sweet
But her eyes are dead.
They scream and run away
So, she pulls up her hood to cover her head.
Red, red is that really you?
They laugh and jeer
As they always do
Forcing her to 'help'.
They tell her to continue.
So, she pulls her cloak close.
And though she wears red, she feels really blue.
Little red, always so small.
They sneer and ask for more
So, she gives them her all.
Then they tell her it's not enough
And it makes her skin crawl.
She curls up so tight,
But she feels backed against a wall.
Little red, little rose
They yell where she lives.
To add to her woes.
But when they climbed the stairs
And touched her clothes
They were empty.
And where she went no one knows.
YOU ARE READING
Lachrymose
PoetryLachrymose /ˈlakrɪməʊs,ˈlakrɪməʊz/ adjective tearful or given to weeping. A collection of amateur prose and poetry illustrating the inner turmoil. Mainly a dumping ground for loose thoughts and ideas to be interpreted in whatever manner.
