Short Forbode Poems

Sadness.
My aching heart
strains to pump
its crimson life
and thus maintains
the whetted blade,
in dark forbode,
upon my neck. 

And tears,
whose flow
might ransom
my tormented mind,
lie dormant as
dry and
withered seeds
upon unyielding stone.

Might, instead,
I someday rise
and gaze transfixed
into the wholesome sky
with feelings of
forgotten love
that dare to
live again....

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