Dark, as the very depths of hell.
Violence, that betrayed violence itself.
It frightened her, to venture there, close as it was to her.
Night after night she sat, desperate for a cure.
But there came none, willing to enter.
None - willing to brave the sorrow.
None - who even knew.
For there was none
Who took the trouble;
The trouble to know her at all.
5 comments:
that was a lapse in blogging.. glad to have something to read on this URL again :)
nice
the best quality of poetry, they say, is that it should be personal and yet universal. This one fits the bill; it's a great write
did she take trouble to know herself and what is the self made up of?
@ Aarish - Thank you :-)
@ Anon - I THINK I might know who you are.... :-p
Nevertheless, you're right.....
She didn't :-/
Post a Comment