My left hand grasps tight
a jade-porcelain dagger
my four knuckles pale.
Poison drips from it's
jagged edge towards the hilt
speckled with rose thorns.
It bites my skin with
the strength of my own hands grip
why can't I let go?
Red mingles with green
mixing an unholy wine
drips into my veins.
The tool has become
the master of the wielder.
So despicable!
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Author:
Zemde (
Offline) - Published: October 3rd, 2021 00:57
- Comment from author about the poem: This was written on my dagger.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
Offline)
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