Writing

Today the skin of my knuckles split. Blood made a little stain on the back of my hand, and it stung. I saw the splotch, at first, earlier in the day, anyway, and it wasn't too bad, just a little red circle.

To commit atrocities 

In the name of love

Such monstrosities 

Causes steps of

A cautioned hush 

The presence of those returned 

Warriors- gentle brush 

Run for your lives 

The night will catch you 

You can run faster. 

 —

Problem with living 

Commitments to the dead

Cannot be escaped

What a fickle thing

The touch of a friend 

To be left- just a fling

Leads thoughts through the bends

Of life, and Death

No matter the love you may feel

No one will escape their last breath 

To define

Rapture

Reverence 

A marble marvel 

She is 

The Muse

Ghost White 

In the Night

which touches her. 
 

Shadows with light 

I am no poet—  

but they write of Lovers,  

the ones who endured,  

the ones who vanished,  

leaving behind only tragedies,