Death-Crone
A heart as brittle as last Autumns leaves,
Withers away and crumbles into dust.
This life is such a lonely place,
And for my death do I now lust.
A plaintive wail rips my throat,
As I entreat upon any name,
That will save me from my own destruction,
And return me whole and sane.
But alas, this wish upon my lips,
Shall be the last one I whisper.
The Death-Crone comes to me in my dreams,
And kills me gently in my slumber.
Copyright © Angelita Becerra | Year Posted 2012
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