Poem 47: Doomed Souls

January 3, 2014
By Romana PLATINUM, Bethel, Connecticut
Romana PLATINUM, Bethel, Connecticut
46 articles 2 photos 7 comments

A doomed soul, ripped screaming

From the tender, intoxicating caress of life.
Brittle fingers decaying;

There are no flowers to be picked here.
Fire and brimstone, fire and brimstone –

My ashes turn to ice.



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