Thin lines
Sting and ooze
Until the crimson liquid
Seeps over the edges
And spills down
The pale trembling canvas
Before dripping
With a barely audible plop
Onto the tile floor below
Gradually collecting into
A burgundy hued pool
Creeping ever so slowly
Until it consumes
Where feet once rested
Working its way
To the discarded blade
Leaving it barely concealed
To be found among the chaos
And the ruin of a once
Happy soul
YOU ARE READING
Black Box
PoetryInside you will find a collection of poems that I hope will help you find some sense of peace. If you like what you read and want more you can follow my Tumblr @pale-rosewritings
