Truth of What's to Come
Kyla
29 Oct, 2014 10:32 PMThe willows whisper, metal clatters on the rocks, cold rain washes red. People come searching, the stream becomes a river, the blood is still fresh. Small lights fill the sky, crickets sing a lullaby, she floats away still. Flames in the water, the currents tease it around, a tangled hair mess. The lights come by her, they picked her up so gently, She was cold as ice. People weep fakely, forever she will smile, from escaping them...
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