I’ve been dreaming,
of the perfect graveyard,
to rest my head,

Bawling icicles,
in the groves of frosted nightshade,
covering my graveyard plot,
Under the black crisp sky of winter,
cold rained on my soul,

I’ve stopped bleeding,
Cranberry red ice streams,
frozen to my wrists,
A stale dead taste,
of iron saliva in my mouth,

Cracking the gunk off my eyelids,
a golden beam cast across them,
Deformed lips strain to smile,
I’d never thought I’d feel the warmth…

A sunrise

This poem is about: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741