into the darkness she screams
bellowing this sickness out with a yell
blood drips down the windowpane of life
porcelain face with blackened eyes and crimson lips
grimaces with internal sadness
she steps gently on the broken souls
collecting about her beaten boots
her black dress swirls in the blowing wind
tick tock tick tock
a clock chimes out of tune
in this forgotten place of pain and regret
plodding on, tears stream down her caked face
red hair plastered to her watery visage
fingernails of crystal dig into her arms
to awaken her from this hell of torture and destruction

she awakens
in her bed
from this dream
shaken and torn
she lays her weary head back on her pillow
her masochism begs her to return
to her dream of comfort...
for, this IS her comfort

some days...

03/07/2003

Author's Note: ah... this IS comfort... some days...

Posted on 03/13/2003
Copyright © 2025 Michele Schottelkorb