Just because someone
Might have shot, stabbed,
Or skinned you alive, even
Behind, by your side
Right before your very eyes,
Doesn't mean your dead.
You live up to tell
Sometimes of your living hell
All over again.
Perhaps it's a wake up call
For you to beware of certain people
Closest or dearest to you.
They maybe wolves hiding
In a sheep's clothing,
Waiting for the perfect time
For that deadly trap to snap,
To pounce and devour
Your pure ignorance
When you are left alone
As rumors gnaw you alive
To the very bones.
YOU ARE READING
Wanderland
PoetryWe all live with memories, memories of all kinds which engulf us until we either reminisce or relive them. Leading us to the feeling of bittersweet intoxication, overwhelming the very core of our being. Perhaps the recollection itself coupled with t...
