Roses of sorrow,
Without a tomorrow,
Devoid of mirth,
Craving rebirth.
A barren soul
In a garden of ghouls,
Its lifeless eye
Ever-fixed on the sky,
A sky grey as mud,
The stars dark as blood,
No light to be found,
No soul-soothing sound.
No promise of morn
But the caress of a thorn,
Blood seeping into a hole
In the middle of the soul.
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Second Tuesday of November
No one knew how the event really started. Between a few beverages at the bar, maybe? Notes passed carefully on the street? Or, perhaps a secret meetup at early hours of the day? Whatever the root source was, we were here now on the second Tuesday of November. Nervous, but also absorbed by the allure.
By Elizabeth Petit3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This was so poignant yet so beautifully written! I loved it!