Trembling hands, shaky voices.
Cold, dark, twisting stairways.
Splattered red...paint? Let’s hope.
Voices piecing poetic words together,
Romanticizing the idea of Death.
A smaller voice, maybe my own, screams out,
“LEAVE ME ALONE!”
The mumbles stop.
Red paint turns to grey.
Death is no longer romantic in any way.
It is sad and dark and lonely.
My small voice whispers as I cry,
“Don’t leave me alone...”