The lull questions my answers.
The dark wrings out my fallacy.
And I hear the lone bird screeching in the middle of the night,
Seething wounds on the wing,
The cold a choking blanket, a fatal lullaby.
The setting of the sun brings the demons out alive.
And ever time, I give in.
And every single time I fall.
© That Girl in the Fray, 2016. All rights reserved.