by Laura Salmon
The rain drizzles gently down onto your head
washes out those desperate wishes that you were dead
Love’s hate worms its way through your poor heart wrenched soul
and takes it’s aim and touches it’s goal.
Your forbidden fruit tree lies in your brain
spinning a web of deceit all over again
and in the dreary mornings the vultures hum
you know you will be dead by the time that they come.
Last updated May 15, 2011