Image by Pezibear on Pixabay
The cold of the wind
lives through my veins
like I was born
in ice.
The harsh light from
the sun does nothing
to melt away my
hard casing, nor does
it try to comfort me
as I bleed icicles
from the hateful
bullet holes that
litter my body.
The walls I lean against
slowly crystalize,
and I struggle to light
a flame that will
stop the pain from
becoming real.
Why has it become so dark?
I can’t feel my fingers
anymore.
I lay down in my ice prison
and go to sleep.
The last thing I hear
is the wind
softly whispering my name.
About the Creator
Becca Mahar
Poetry is my passion. I tend to spill my heart out in my writing, so if you enjoy compelling emotional poems, my page is for you. I'm a neverending abyss of emotions.
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