poem

A touch that feels the skin,
There vanishes the pain of anatomy.
But the pain of soul still stays.
It feels the blood, only to cut it apart,
As it pierces through the body.
A nerve catches up with life,
The blood flows faster.
The music of cacophony is heard.
This is what the dreams are made of;
This one is a dream of hell.
Heaven seems a speck.
The hand that touches feels compassion,
The intense throbbing goes to waste.
Throbbing might break the nerve one day.
Its an endless deep abyss that’s needed,
Not a narrow tunnel.
A story ends. Alright
Life entwined keeps it alive.
This story is a death of stars
Unheard passions rush like blood to the head,
Loud they scream and cry,
As they get naked in front of hollow eyes.
ME