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Belts
October 11, 2010
Hand lifting,
Gripping real tight,
Comes down shifting,
Knuckles turning white.
Does it just to get thrills,
No real reason for it,
Screams that are shrill,
Everytime it hits.
Covers the mouth,
In the quiet town of Plymouth,
The time to count.
Hits that never miss,
Any tears, they melt,
Come down with a swish,
Of the shiny black belt.
Forever now it is over,
The flowers sing that sound,
Peace on the hill named Dover,
On that peacfully raised mound.
© Anonymous
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