deepundergroundpoetry.com
I never knew her name.
the creatures of habit despise the fog-
nails bite back, fingers weep bright red
Wet winter forest is dead with the sound of bitter air-
Sun chases wind to make the trees cry from above
branches shadows scream like a muted painting
the living & dead sit together on the forest floor, twisted in the organized perfect plan-
death is not certain- its just a word.
Its never dark unless you believe it.
nails bite back, fingers weep bright red
Wet winter forest is dead with the sound of bitter air-
Sun chases wind to make the trees cry from above
branches shadows scream like a muted painting
the living & dead sit together on the forest floor, twisted in the organized perfect plan-
death is not certain- its just a word.
Its never dark unless you believe it.
Published 9th Feb 2017
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