*note its not about me, just a poem, im fine
his dance was scarred and tattered
walking into the room
his breath was dust scattered words
they looked eyes open petrified
the matted coat he unconcealed
hands bearing cold sharp steel
the dust erupted from his lungs
she her that girl princess he spoke
the water slowly boiled
fingertips rattles snake tails
without steps the woods creaked
within a humble gust of wind
memory flashes the gun to his
depression was considered a sin
tires screeched through
the dust came from their mouths
the wood floor silent
time silent
loss
