It burns in her,
like a forest fire.
You can feel it in her glare,
the anger deep within,
penetrating your flimsy exteriors,
gazing deep into your souls of greed.
It emanates from her perfect form,
as blood splatters, crimson and rich.
It chokes any clarity from her mind,
and all that’s left is the murderous intent.
But who could blame her?
She watched her home burn to the ground,
you laughed in her ash-streaked face,
and through her tearful eyes,
she watched you walk away.
The rage has consumed her,
and all her mortal soul,
it’s transformed her
into an avenging phoenix.
You can’t see her humanity in those angry eyes,
nor can you obtain any pity when you beg.
She holds your severed head in her hand,
she’s covered in blood,
soaked in anger.
She’s lost any feeling she used to have.
And though she gazes upon the destruction,
she feels nothing at all.
It’s too late for her to ever be human again.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry of Death
Poézia"You kept saying that you would never die, that you would live forever. But here you are, and here I am. Isn't it funny? I'm here to take your soul. Did I mention, I love my job? Oh right! I never told you. I'm the reaper who will reap your life." B...
