Cold Hands

-A work of imaganation-

A dead body lay on the ground before me,

Left lying forlornly across the grass,

Nobody wept nor prayed,

No words were said,

The air silent,

Heavy with death,

Scented with innocence,

Blowing with regret,

The last thoughts of the corpse,

I dared to hold hands with.


Her hands were cold,

I lay beside her,

We slept under the willow,

Weeping as he tried to reach the earth,

She looks young,

Undeserving of her fate,

My heart weeps with each thud,

Holding her cold cold hands,

While my soul melts for her.



Author: Henri Darkner

Life is harsh. Love is harsh. God makes it better. I've always loved to read, and daydream too. I love literary pairings in sounds and text, styles and images. My favourite book is 1984 by George Orwell.

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