She walks down the trail so tattered and torn,
Where for her in the trees they viciously wait...
Like diamonds she was beautiful and hard-
What cares have she, that her poet is doomed...
Each step on the tightrope brings
Another jolt of white fear...
Hello Mr. Reaper.
How twas your day...
Here I am cutting myself over you,
Why pft I have no clue...
She planned the perfect murder
Now a man is dead...
I held the knife,
Away from myself...
Looking around this sullen room,
where the people like statues...
Sitting and thinking
a fools only hope...
Near the woodland marsh,
desperate pleas gargle...
Colored crayons
scribbled messages...
Blood red is the shadow round your eyes
as you look out on dying skies...