A Young Writer's Mind
Tuesday, 8 March 2016
Stained
The snow falls
on your cold blue face.
The blood has dried
and stained your dress made of lace.
Alone in the woods
surrounded by trees dead with frost
The perfect graveyard
for the girl I have lost.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Older Post
Home
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment