poems*

No. 9

In a small neighborhood, it’s forests full of grey like dead moss,

Sits a house, small and stone cold as though it reflects its boss,

Late on this evening, the house sits silent, still like the air

And though it seems peaceful, down the road sirens blare

Because through a window lays its shattered glass

A girl sits, her hand hold a piece of brass

A candlestick, a tip tinged in red

At her feet, a man lay dead

She didn't want to
He forced her hand
She told him not
He tried to still
And her hand 
Just reached
Her fingers
Found metal
And she swung
And swung 
And swung 
His head
He screamed
His blood
Covered 
Her 
Whole