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The Island
June 18, 2010
The wind upon the jagged rocks
Will always be a cry.
The rain is beating down like tears
From dying gods up in the sky.
The waves upon the filthy beach
Drown out what I have said,
But no one ever really hears
The whispers of the dead.
Just up the hill, there is a place
For killers just like you and me.
The walls are never coming down,
No matter how you plea.
Just up the hill, there is a place
Where bodies hang down from the trees.
Just up the hill, there is a place
Where no one dies in peace.
© Jacqueline T., Flowermound, TX
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