It’s as if death, himself, were following me
Thorns of my roses
Draw the blood from my wrists
The drink no longer satisfies
The pain never subsides
Death lingers on my lips
Yet pushes back not ready to eclipse
Death lingers in little pills
Yet I wake sore and tired
This red rose is turning black
It’s leaves withering still
It’s thorns shriveling from dryness
Death comes in many forms
Until alas today
Black crows follow me round about
As if death, himself, were following me
For I did not give my life away to him
For I did not place the poison on my tongue
And swallow it whole
For I would not hand over my soul
Now death follows me round about
Pecking at my soul
Tearing to tear my soul apart
About the Creator
Alisha Wilkins
I've been writing my whole life. Writing about realms to escape in, forbidden characters to fall in love with, and using writing as my muse and refuge. Sometimes writing opens up the soul to healing, learning, and eventually to living again
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