I can Paint,
The Ocean,
Turbulent and restless,
Beneath my fingertips,
Bleeding with the words,
That come from the depth,
Of the chaos,
Which was once beautiful.
I can Paint,
Heaven for you,
Peaceful and serene,
Beneath my fingertips,
Which bleed,
The melancholy,
Of the past.
I can Paint,
The desert,
Beneath my fingertips,
Which has nothing,
But the tranquil silence,
Of the present.
I can Paint,
The hell,
Beneath my fingertips,
Which burns,
As it meets my touch,
With the agony,
Of the future.
YOU ARE READING
Scourge: A Poetry Collection
Poesía"I have Scourged your soul, While you drew on me, So intricately. All I can ask for, Is forgiveness, Which I don't deserve, Anymore." Scourge: A poetry Collection
