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poem
In the moments of bitter silence,

there are moments of sweet violence.

All the times there were blood,

rushing like an evil flood.

And when in the darkness,

all the trees are barkless.

Everything seems as if it is dead,

except the trail which is painted red.

Once again, looking like blood,

but with the consistancy of mud.

And as you fall to the ground,

your body is never to be found.






User Comments: [2] [add]
McChelly
Community Member
avatar
commentCommented on: Wed Nov 28, 2007 @ 11:44pm
intense


User Comments: [2] [add]
 
 
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