Him
A Poem About Betrayal
The lie
Perpetuated
In the loving trust
Now shattered
How can I believe
With a broken heart
Unmended?
The death of trust
Is one not easily
Rectified
Or resurrected
A mistake
That time may never heal
A wound
Unable to knit together
The drugs
Are tearing us apart
The Enigma unsolved
A mystery
So sad
The ending of a story?
The fairy tale
Not happily ever after
Anymore
A dark cloud
Over the forest
As it burns
Will love quench the flames?
Will I learn to trust
Again
With a broken heart?
A second chance?
Why can't this be simple?
A question without an answer
Will I say goodbye?
I can't
I love him
About the Creator
Michelle Truman | Prose and Puns | Noyath Books
I fell in love with speculative fiction and poetry many years ago, but I have precious little time to write any. It was high time I started making Prose and Puns a priority, starting with Purple Poetry, Auqredis, and the World of Noyath.
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At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly4 days ago in Horror
Comments (1)
“The death of trust Is one not easily Rectified” Is such a true statement.