Drenched is the heart,
As is the soul –
Soaked in the freshly-spilled blood of the past,
Though they bathe,
Choose to seek a sort of comfort,
Spending hours in the liquid
Until they’re stained completely red
And their insides warmed through.
The mountainside holds a truth,
A stoned pathway, spiralling upwards
In the same way,
Rainfall spirals downwards,
And as the mountains become wet with storm,
The pathways crumble in such futility.
Follow me to stay up to date with my writing tips/advice, schedule updates, special offers, prize giveaways, and writing-based competitions.