She lay,
motionless on a bed of crimson roses,
fallen from the mysterious depths of the skies,
on the night of her passing.
Passer-bys lay their sight,
on her frail body,
slowly decaying away,
soon into dust,
soon forgotten.
This was her atonement,
her soft wrists,
with thin red lashes of hate,
of the past.
Her first and final flight,
to the afterlife,
ended in misery,
sending shockwaves of fear and melancholy.
That was his last chapter,
prolonged, written, predetermined.
Freedom,
she received,
suicide,
was her gift.
I made this out of boredom..
Cos I can't fucking sleep. Hah.
zK taped a piece at 10/26/2004 04:01:00 AM
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