Apr 2019
One,Two, Three, Four
Broken lines patterned upon a wounded arm
Made whole by a sharpened razor
Five,Six,Seven,Eight
Each frantic movement of a grotesque dance
Made but an act of morbid comedy
Nine,Ten,Eleven,Twelve
And it stops, As the white curtains hide their guise
Hoping....to never go through it again
Broken lines patterned upon a wounded arm
Made whole by a sharpened razor
Five,Six,Seven,Eight
Each frantic movement of a grotesque dance
Made but an act of morbid comedy
Nine,Ten,Eleven,Twelve
And it stops, As the white curtains hide their guise
Hoping....to never go through it again
A memory of what was, what shouldn’t have, and A hope that noone else has to face. And if they do, Something I hope someone the strength to overcome it
