Shivering with cold
And with the fear
Choking to death
In a river of tears
Ankles and wrists bound in place
By steel shackles
That love can't replace
Deep wounds
Burns and bruises
Cover my whole body
Like a piece of grotesque art
On a blank and moving canvas
The wounds bleed
And the words write
Something hollow and empty
Yet so full of meaning
Arms and legs drawn in close
To capture little heat
The small sounds are pitifully gross
Chained to the dark walls
Where their words have been written
On each cold stone
So they can never be forgiven
My heart lies in pieces
Too broken to be mended
And scattered on the floor
A shadow lies behind me
But it has a strained smile
A faker of happiness
The person I pretend to be
Surrounded by darkness
Of night so deep black
But I can faintly hear the beating
Of each tiny butterfly wing
Etched onto their vibrant colours
A word so often searched for
A swirling and shining 'Hope'
They try to penetrate
The murkiness of my mind
Where I have hidden in a corner
And have almost gone blind
I cower against the words
And take a shuddery breath
If they don't find me soon
Then who will find me will be Death
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth.
Poetry(n) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past. Collection no.2 --very old poems--
