A golden smile, a gilded mane
Soft sunlight, the smell of rain
Singing eyes, the sirens' call
Smiling still, despite the fall
Halo of light, suspended still
Golden flight, yellow daffodil
Porcelain skin, pale as the moon
A vision of life, in the afternoon
Drenched in sun, light and tears
Her gilded lips, are drawing near

On the morning of the end, they wove the nooses of rough cord.
Daylight broke cold, the sun did not warm the Earth.

The sky was grey, the sun was dim.
The hoarse whispers of Latin drifted across the barren court yard.
Lined in stone, but for the creaking of the wooden gallows.

The sullen crowd gathers, heavy in their silence.
As they pull the bag from my head, I look blearily for you.
They shove me up the steep steps, I stumble.
The executioner tightens the noose around my neck.

My hands are bound behind me, there's no fighting death.
His grubby hand briefly grabs my face,
He whispers cruel words, intent for them to be the last I shall hear.
The lever is pulled and floor drops away, my last words I whisper,
Come to the gallows, my dear.

**Crack.

Hope is a funny thing, you know. People have the power give it and to take it away. It's so easily crushed and easily stolen. Since I came to this site, I have loved your poems. Today, you made me feel wanted, special. Like somebody could care. And I want you to feel the same. I want to find you.
Love,
Liz and Lilacs

Why do mourning and morning
sound so alike?

For mourning is the kind
of thing
for endings

And mornings
Are more like
Beginnings

I think of myself,
My existence,
I pick apart every little piece of me.
This hate, this self loathing,
Stems from my selfish desire,
To think of myself.

I always end up watching
As my friends lose themselves in liquor.
I don't drink because I see the way they change.
I don't want to get lost.
It makes me scared to see them change.