Nefelibata- The rants of a cloud-walker

Hold my hand

Mariya, hold my hand,

Hold my hand and

Lead me to the land

Of your stick figures,

Where it keeps the scores

Of my deeds.

I wish to repent, Mariya.

You said you loved me-

While they stood sentinel over

your chest,

You rushed to hold me

Like war, in the crest.

I stood agape in my front yard-

A prisoner of war- surrendered.

It should have been love,

I know because I felt the shove

Deep in my core

Until my silence tore.

You spoke of the unsewed button

To my shirt, igniting my yarn,

Stroking the stick figures

Away

Nodding an approval my way.

A little lamb's merriment for a human,

Who held the cleaver in her words.

You are a sinner, Mariya.

I laid you upon my heart,

Murmuring the secret

Between the jasmine and the moon,

The story of wilt and wan,

That drove my desire to grief

To hold you close, if brief.

I wrapped you in my arms,

Like the scissor arms

Before it cuts- the flower-

I wilted my flower-
cower.

I killed you, Mariya.

I couldn't see you

dead against my chest,

Now hold my hand, will you?

Clutch my hair as you did best

When I slit your throat

With those pink, pink hands-

Now cerise, with your clot.

Hold it.

☆☆☆☆☆

🤓

A question. Please answer.

Tried writing in dark themes.

Is dark poetry appreciated?