Don't cry little girl.
The summer's gone,
moved on,
and your soul's painted white
like flame, like light
when it's liquid;
and as the world crumbles down
and the stars
fall onto us -
don't make a sound,
hold up your head.
They say
you've been dead
for too long to be afraid
and torn
by the crush.
Hush, baby, hush.
The demon under your bed
isn't that bad.
Have you really been dead?
I mean, tell me the truth.
No jokes.
No carefully laid plans.
Show me your hands.
...
Oh. Those are just cuts.
Do you still bleed?
What do you need
from the Heaven above?
Don't scream it out loud,
this L-thing
that people call love.
It's Life.
*Now* you may cry.
Show Me Your Hands
© Copyright: Марина Смерека, 2006
Свидетельство о публикации №106091700949
Свидетельство о публикации №106091700949
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