A writer of snake,
skin of words,
poison ink,
fangs of pen,
We slither thoughts,
inform the prey,
hiss away,
bathe in the sun of glory,
alas the grass we rest,
I bid thee adieu,
the rest of you,
the skin of the snake that remains.
Tag: poetry
The windy corridor
I passed the doors,
the winding hallway,
I turned to see,
no one standing,
right behind me.
I was alone,
I thought I was.
I heard them.
They stomped near me.
I saw no one.
I heard the whispers.
The footsteps, stomping.
It was you looking for me.
Sorrow I feel
What sorrow I feel,
The cost of your love too great.
What wry humor,
Your laugh at my wit.
What trepidation I suppress,
Your heart in my hand.
Dahlia Blake's Corner of Intrigue 