On a swing of deadened wood she would
Swing, holding upon these slender ropes of thorn.
Piercing onto flesh, but always held on as
Though to fall, but tears bleed from this motion.
Back and forth, white became red as a head
Slumped forward and motions carried on as hand frim.
This dead wood sat upon a rope of thorns
Motioning the seeping tide that with each gesture flowed.
Grasping fingers ridged as these swings, each
With heads slumped, bleed a little and swung always evermore .
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
On a swing of deadened wood she would
Swing, holding upon these slender ropes of thorn.
Piercing onto flesh, but always held on as
Though to fall, but tears bleed from this motion.
Back and forth, white became red as a head
Slumped forward and motions carried on as hand frim.
This dead wood sat upon a rope of thorns
Motioning the seeping tide that with each gesture flowed.
Grasping fingers ridged as these swings, each
With heads slumped, bleed a little and swung always evermore .
