PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

She stared at her blood stained hands,

thinking to herself, "what have I done?"

Her once angelic eyes,

now gray from enduring pain,

looked over the remaining secretions around her wrists.



A gasp escaped her lungs,

a painful breath that sent an ache through her body.

Quivering from the loss of blood,

she spoke softly to herself.

"Am I not dead yet?"



Evil cast its shadow where she lay.

It would not be long now.

Wickedness would soon overtake her.

The imp of demise placed the noose around her neck,

and it cut her flesh as the knife had done moments ago.



Her hands flew to her throat.

She touched blood,

felt it warm on her hands.

Is this not what she wanted?

Death, bereavement, fatality



No, not this time.

Not this way.

She felt along the rope,

frantically searching for the knot.

But she was too late.



The lariat tightened one final time,

her last breath diminished,

and incarcerated tears now fell.

The onus deed had been done,

and she was taken.