Your hand slipped from mine
with strong silent reverie
remaining devout in the curled knife
between life and death,
impossible.
The empath inside this head imploded.
Searched bitterly through books
which had no truth
fact, reason or rhetoric,
desperate for affirmation.
Apothecaries could not revive
a ghost who pulsed beneath
opalescent skin,
no magic could replace ferocious
strength which held my bones
until I thought the world had come
to an abrupt end.
Only a shadow
a carcass.
wrecked
listless
as your hand
slipped
from
mine
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Reblogged this on hocuspocus13 and commented:
jinxx xoxo
welcome in my world
marcello
i like how the empath in the head just exploded. we try to be good people, but when we are hurt, that good person disappears.that happened to me just last week…but that’s another story. hey, that could make a pome.
Notes From A Metroline
Sometimes there is no magic. Excellent write Shan.
Cheers Mary xo