The sun shines brightest
on a dead winter day
soothing my soul
in the simplest way.

I cannot deny
what lives inside
it 's too loud to silence,
too big to hide.

I pray for all
who can't find their way
and can't feel the sun
on a dead winter day.

She's written with crimson red blood,
Unceasingly flowing
From her invisible cuts.

Dressed with carefully picked enthralling wordsー
Seemingly fitting, seemingly perfect
But as you read between the lines,
You'll be wrapped with her gloomy wilting vines.

She could either be a riddle
And leave you bewildered,
Or she could be an answer
And shed light upon you.

For she's a sad poem
But beautifully written.

©kg

Half of my soul will always be like the dark side of the moon

The mystery shielded away from unwished-for eyes

I will follow my inner moonlight rays

Which will lead me to an abyss of nightfall, secrets and home

🌚 🌑 🌚 🌑 🌚 🌑 🌚