Truth of What's to Come

Kyla

29 Oct, 2014 10:32 PM
The willows whisper,
metal clatters on the rocks,
cold rain washes red.

People come searching,
the stream becomes a river,
the blood is still fresh.

Small lights fill the sky,
crickets sing a lullaby,
she floats away still.

Flames in the water,
the currents tease it around,
a tangled hair mess.

The lights come by her,
they picked her up so gently,
She was cold as ice.

People weep fakely,
forever she will smile,
from escaping them...
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