The dry woman sat in the corner, withering away,
Her tiny bones were like timber and they left marks,
On the floor.
His hand repulsed a lip, where the cigarette happily sat in blood.
The wounded stain of remorse on the tip, violated their speech
And when the splinters were lit, he walked away.

There was nothing left to say,
Until a pulse woke her up,
And she reached for the sun.

02/03/2007

Author's Note: This is the first poem i have written for a long time. I want to thank Mr Edward Clay for that :)*READ HIS STUFF!* It is my usual spitting onto a page, but i prefer that cathartic approach. Glad i'm writing again anyway. stay beautiful x

Posted on 02/03/2007
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