She was the murder girl,
the bloodied knife held in her hand
dripping to the floor.
“I hate love,” so she said,
a rage risen from sick passions
screaming nevermore.
Never to be apart,
she just wanted to be alone,
tapping at the door.
Bookfuls of memories
piled high, set alight, enjoying
watching the flames roar.
Erasure of the past,
the future now written redder
than an open sore.
With a sigh of relief,
the act cannot be taken back;
What was it all for?
She was the murder girl
head and heart were separated
evening the score.
Today’s Daily Stoic poem:
1994ever 