Choir Of Death's Children
3 March, 2006
Author: Fallen_Angel
Jagged fingertips
against,your pale skin
and then brushing through your auburn hair like the wind
Shot gun shots that sound
replaying threw a broken house
and your soul as cold
as the snow that covers the wet ground
painted white, white as the tear filled clouds
that carry you dearly to reality's crashing walls.
And the gasoline teardrops of god's angels
fall and ignite the flames of hell
The empty breaths that once lingered threw your dark pealing lips
which I caress gently with my rough fingertips
echo in the song played by the violinist
Let the choir of death's children not be delayed
and delightfully they will sing
as your burning flesh meets
hells gate's flames.
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Comments on this poem/writing:
| firshta (70.56.155.5) -- Saturday, June 17 2006, 01:09 am this is a good poem |
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