I bowed down to the demon
One too many times
What little soul I have left
seeps into the dead earth
Blood trails of hope
gathered in a shot glass
to taint and warp
Beauty is the deceiver
and I love to be lied to
Staring off into a
The nothingness of a life
Wondering when the
Pulse began to slow
As I swallow
A full-bodied, sweet scent
That leaves a burn behind
I again bow down in
Acceptance
I no longer have control
I signed it away at my death
sentence
“Hope gathered in a shot glass…” Now that line made the poem in my opinion. Bravo as always, Fia.
Thank you, Daniel;))