The Incident
It’s deathly cold.
The walls are blank
The air is so thick that you could take a
blade to it as you would a cake and serve it
to people at a birthday.
But of course, I have no birthday.
I don’t know how I was born,
or where I was born.
The prophecy told my family that I would arrive.
It told them I would raise chaos and destruction on them.
Of course no one believed it until..well..
“The incident”
After that they forced me to be isolated from the world.
I retreat back everyday into attic I once called my mind.
This isolation..
It’s solemn.
I fell weak, I cannot stand.
I’m pale.
They tell me I am sick.
I am not sick.
I am cold.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
