Dark Poems

Roses are red, and so is blood. . .

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18. 18.

 


 

Starts with a whimper, yet soon turned to a scream.

Stumbling in pain, tears fall down my face in a steady stream.

Blinded, aching, the agonizing melting of my skin.

Though I hate it, I know this is a battle I cannot win.

Werewolf against silver, earth against stone.

Changing, turning, the popping sound of shifting bone.

Flesh turns to fur, brown eye's to those of a bright blue sky.

Bound in the chains of battle, I with nothing more than to

spread invisible wings and fly.

 

But fate holds me, and I cannot dent this iron cage.

I try no more, as I cannot, to control my blinding rage.

And so, unbound, my blood succeeds to paint the sky red.

Last of my struggles gone, I lie here, dead in my bed. 

Never to be remembered, soon to be forgotten.

And I shall lay here, now and forever, trapped in my

plated silver coffin.

 

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