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ACT II: Verse
December 1, 2018
Trails of blood do nothing but stain,
And sing a lovelier verse, unfathomable to the mind’s labyrinth.
My feelings for you will never be poetic.
Love is naught but an illiterate fool, she lacks in her expression,
Of us and oneself.
Each and every verse I write is a lie.
Every poem I write is an abomination.
But what is a poem?
Is poetry but a recollection of tragedy,
Or a murder song, killing our minds just to put it on paper?
And I wonder if I’m only wondering this because mindfulness is long buried,
And poetry is a resuscitation,
And poetry is a killer.
© Anonymous
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