When the sun lays its head on this part of the world,
The darkness hides the hearts of despondency,
Attracted to the cruelty of an invisible society,
Warded by the restrictions absconded by the free.
**
The shadows become friends, cloaked in danger,
Surrendering to the abyss of the darkened heart,
Black blood runs cold through blistered veins,
Aching to bleed out, destruction tearing it apart.
**
The gravelly voice of doom echoes the dark alleyways,
Wind spiced with the acid of the stench of destruction,
Raining upon the undeserving without a taste for life,
In a dance of death and sordid seduction.
**
The moon raises her head and highlights the glint of a blade,
A quick flick of a wrist and the soluble powder slithers like snow,
Whipped into the arms of the wind, hovering precariously,
Snorted innocently by those who do not know.
**
A whisper could be life saving, for one that’s destined to hear,
The parting of air swooshing invisibly, a static mimicking a click,
The raw cloth rubbing across an inner thigh, just for a few seconds,
A hefty boot thumping its heel, or the blade of a switchback’s tiny flick.
**
The hair on the back of one’s neck standing to attention,
A heart beat stuttering in panic, feet longing to flee,
A pulse speeding up in a race against time,
Thoughts pondering the ability to freeze, intending to see.
**
Wishing for the presence of the morning dawn,
Wondering if it’s a sight you’ll once more witness in delight,
Will you throw caution to the darkness, the depth of your fear,
Will you be the one to survive this darkest of night?
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
If you enjoy this piece, you may enjoy this one too.
Please visit my website if you'd like more information on my newly published book, Battle Angel : The Ultimate She Warrior.
Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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Comments (3)
This is great. I hope to survive the night, my friend.
Wind spiced with the acid of the stench of destruction The moon raises her head and highlights the glint of a blade Oh I really loved these two lines so much! You always never fail to amaze me with your words!
Only time will tell.