There was blood on her hands
As she wept,
Staring out the window,
As darkness came,
As darkness consumed,
And she sank into it,
Willingly to empty
The stench of death,
Her heavy shroud.
With dreams to mount the funeral pyre
O sweet relief,
The grasp of grief
Loosened lost.
A scarp of a poem. I lost the vibe on this one.
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