Twilight is pastel,
grey grief gripping the soul,
wrapping in a pall of thickened mist
with a sickening shade of
mourning brown.
At the horizon,
you wait for the homing birds
to fly on its wings
like a dream glued to my life’s script.
Many times I wondered,
why you come back to this land
where the scary hand of the butcher
scuttles every dream;
where humanity drowns
in its own anguished cries.
The smell of blood is
intoxicating when its grasp
tightens like a noose
on my consciousness.
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 5:15 AM UTC
Twilight is pastel,
grey grief gripping the soul,
wrapping in a pall of thickened mist
with a sickening shade of
mourning brown.
At the horizon,
you wait for the homing birds
to fly on its wings
like a dream glued to my life’s script.
Many times I wondered,
why you come back to this land
where the scary hand of the butcher
scuttles every dream;
where humanity drowns
in its own anguished cries.
The smell of blood is
intoxicating when its grasp
tightens like a noose
on my consciousness.
Request permission to use this poem