PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

She slowly draws a fine line across her wrist;

To taste the ink from beneath her skin.

Tiny beams of sunlight bleed.

The room is dark. A ball point pen;

Lies across the note she wrote.

"Was it me? Was it him?"

The bath is full.

The water is cold.

Behold, the last—the final breath to hold.

Release comes easy.

To the floor the ink pours with warmth.

A beautiful cascade, portrayed.

Deep red lakes with porcelain shores.

One lonely path to take.

The taste of metal dances;

With the silence of the morning air.

There is no one here.

There is no one here.