| ||||||||||
| ||||||||||
| ||||||||||
| ||||||||||
| ||||||||||
|
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| >> Static Item >> Poetry >> Personal >> ID #683812 |
| |||||||||||||
|
The last rain comes,
On a crystal Waterfall. Fish are swimming, They don't hear the lost call. In awet woody corner, A floating object stood, It hung in the air, Like balloons once would. In a disused fun fair, Life was sprung there. From where the toffe apples were, As if i had no care. The Lost call echoed again, It was of one gone, Who's loved one died for calories, When wheight watchers fell like a bomb. She had fallen prey to anorexia, He could never not see bones, Her skeleton poked from pale skin, Just another anorectic clone. Her death was his destruction, she destroyed his abused soul, It was a mind full of anarchy. For him The End of the World was whole.
© Copyright 2003 Matt - Nomad (UN: dragoon362 at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
Matt - Nomad has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |