Paintings made by the dead.
Thoughts are dancing in his head.
The carvings on his skin,
were like paper,
oh, so thin.
He hid it so no one could see,
while he was wondering around in a big black sea.
He was breathing in the dark,
not wanting to be bitten by the shark.
He drowned in silence,
without ideals or violence.
YOU ARE READING
It all dies in the end
PoetryWe all die in the end. There is not something like a 'happy' ending.
