Sinking in her striking dialect,
the words take their costly toll;
heart-strings pulled tightly,
and deftly strummed in haunting melody;
I am left to be sublimely mesmerized.
I accept her cold knife to my chest.
The blood pools at her fair feet
as I grow pale and feeble.
As vision darkens, and shock sets in
My last thought dims my mind;
Better to have blood and lost,
than to never have bled at all.
[21:10|13.11.011] ©c.thomas.carter
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