Cold Concrete

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Il Meurt

Submitted: August 16, 2009

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Submitted: August 16, 2009

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All my stars have fallen and lie collated beneath my feet
The livid moon screams at me incessantly, but always silently
A razor blade beside me drips with crimson life, wasted
 
 
I lay myself down on the hard contours of a cold concrete floor
A single flower rises between the cracks, hopeful for the cradling light
And, realising it has fled from here, becomes undone and withers quick
 
I lie down on the vacant contours of a cold concrete floor
An empty bottle of whiskey at my feet, already gathers dust
A razor blade beside me drips with crimson life, wasted
 
I close my eyes against the dying light, and dream of you:
Our limbs a neat entwine of warmth against the winter cold
Your voice: soft, melodic notes of an angels harp, echoeing
Your kind, caring tongue is never still, even inside my mouth
The sweet, steady thump of your heart against my chest
Sends liquid euphoria pulsing through my happy limbs
But all this beauty thrives now only in memory’s hands
 
I open these heavy lids one final time and you’re gone
Your hand long since slipped from mine, gripping now only emptiness
I’m alone, cold and tired. Melancholia is raping me but I am passive
A razor blade beside me drips with crimson life, wasted


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