Horns
Nothing is heard, not the breath from his lips,
Or the footsteps he sets to the floor.
Blinded, cursed, forsaken by all emotion.
It resides in darkness awaiting the corpse.
It burns the soul with frozen coals of sorrow.
It leaves a print burning ablaze.
It taints the heart and turns it black.
He is an artist with a steel brush.
Painting the canvas red with blue strokes.
Killing is a classic, his horror is real.
Fell from the sky, crash, and burn, bleed he healed.
With two beings, the son is born.
Two horns... and nothing more.
View User's Journal
Please read
 |
