Treasure Island

Mark R Slaughter


Her Bliss


Death is in the flower's heart –
Why to cry for life of any petal?

Death in purple ink of weary pens
Betrays the written yearnings
On her scented paper.

Death is laughing in her cry;
Her broken heart forlorn upon the sleeve.

Death ignores the plight of any purity –
He doesn’t care or seem to be aware of
What her dewy eye desires,
For Death beckoned:

'Embrace the jar! '
And yes, she did –
For Death, of course.

After all, no other man would
Open up her hand and bid her with a kiss,
So Death became her bliss.


Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009










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suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide
suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide
suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide

Submitted: Monday, October 19, 2009
Edited: Tuesday, January 10, 2012

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