The dream turns into nightmare,
The hellish, piercing cold stare
That freezes the surrounding air
Into shards tearing into flesh.
Blood flows down into a river,
Working its way into a shiver,
And makes the weak quiver.
The wretched wretch it out.
The organs of death pulsate,
An oozing and seeping state
Of being past the final date
Assigned to an expiration.
Death is the end of us all,
Squawks the bird its call
As it watches the living fall
Into the abyss of damnation.
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Online) - Published: May 6th, 2017 20:06
- Category: Gothic
- Views: 33
Online)
Comments2
Oohh apart from all that, everything's fine then! That's a line from an old comedy film, not my original line.
Haha! Exactly! Thanks for reading and commenting!
Erm, should I book a holiday there? heehee.
Haha!
Doh! That's taken the edge of the scariness, or darkness of the poem, maybe. Trust me to! lol.
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