The Graveyard Of Her Soul
Her prized possessions

She wanders through memory lane
Picking out pieces of her nightmares,
Gathering her pain, her heartbreak
Noticing where her tears need repairs.
***
She collects her previous scalpings
Those collected during her insanity,
Souvenirs of those who wronged her
Silencing their uttering of profanity.
***
Her hunting grounds are getting lean
As she no longer hides from the dark,
Cross her at your own risk, your peril
She’ll brand you with her sordid mark.
***
There’s no more room for forgiveness
She’s quick to decide you’ll be next,
Beheading you with a torrid smile
Proof, no she’ll class you as suspect.
***
There were times she could be kind
These’er getting fewer and far between,
If you’ve wronged her in any way
You’ve been listed as sordidly mean.
***
Her trophies are her prized possession
As she mounts them around her soul,
Torturing them all as she sees fit
Giggling insanely with the lives she stole.
***
Her favourite haunt is the old graveyard
Where she reads the stories of the past,
Knowing she’s the last one remembered
Lingering on, as her choices are cast.
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Originally posted on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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