Treasure Island

Is It Poetry

(1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

Terror Of The Soul


The heart grows cold, then flutters still.
Her blue eyes mirror,
what comes forth from those lips.

The driving force within,
idols are,
the living thorn within the soul.

Bloody night's,
her whip across my back.
Bloodstains,
hide the depth of her well.

I'm just a slave to her misery.
My heart bleeds,
I've waited her whole life.
For this moment.

If I close my eye's,
then you have weakened me.
And if my soul is by her refused,
I have died in fear.

Black is black and blue is grey,
tonight she has a say.
Purple sooths her heart beats,
in my blood.

Submitted: Monday, January 20, 2014

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