Beauty is painted, stroke by stroke.
Urged by pain.
Forced by hopelessness,
Guided by darkness.
Then they burst forth,
Those hideous creatures,
Those awful things,
That shriek and wail and scream,
They writhe with Anger,
With Pleasure.
And as the demons free themselves,
They call to their brothers and sisters.
They preach the freedom they feel.
A freedom you can never hope to find.
The release they sought is so much better than they hoped.
So much more painful than they had feared.
And who are you but the gatekeeper?
You must let them pass.
YOU ARE READING
Words are a window to the soul
PoetryA collection of poetry, possibly. All will be done by me unless otherwise stated, I might not update regularly.
