Raven

The Moth Diaries, Poetry
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2005-06-09 19:01:40 (UTC)

Poem 57- Watcher's Wilting Rose

she was the type of girl who passed you by,
the sort that you saw but never rememberd.
with a blinding smile that was kept hidden
only the moon knew her fate.
she used to sit alone at night and stare, just stare.
keeping her eyes fixed on this reflected source of light
making her feel real, making her feel alive.

she was the type of girl who you expected to be there,
every morning you saw her walking past joe's shop
and each night she blended into the backgroud of those-
without futures.
she doesnt hear you, shes too busy listening to her silence,
and i dont think she could if she tried.
there comes a point, when the scales tip, when time stands-
still
and then what you expect to be there, suddenly isnt anymore.

she was the type of girl whos eyes you never knew the colour
one of those shadow girls, shadow spirits.
she wore long sleeves and ivory earings,
but i knew what was kept secrect, scarification, mutilation.
i saw that carved piece of art, that sharp angled star,
the pentacal imbedded in her palm,
the vampyres stake written into her breast.
whore, worthless, demon and silenceing
shaken words drawn with shaken hands.

she was the type of girl who, once she was gone you looked-
for.
she would have gone far, they all said so
all those simpering teachers, those pathetic excuses for-
humans.
and creativity ran through her veins, painted on her walls
red and black, shades of night, shades of incite.
faces mourning out of her bedroom walls
the pictures of charcoal and ash, willow and gash,
smeared with scarlet paint.

she was the type of girl you never saw speak,
never saw eat, sleep or behave as a human should.
wandering around with her head down, cradling her arms,
comforting her soul, but who knew this?
the thing was, in the end she only had herself,
and maybe her demons~

she was the type of girl who you could never be honest to,
you couldnt bring yourself to ask her if she smiled,
you wouldnt ever dare to ask her if she would sit with you
but it was all she lived for,
cherishment,that sweet spiritual torment,
she lead a lonely life, and she walked it alone
- but you never saw her cry,
didnt shed a single fear, not for you.

she was the type of girl, who just didnt wake up one day.
the cock crowed and she lay peacfully, silently-
watchfully asleep. with cold grey eyes that stared
seemed to stare right into your own, but you knew they-
couldnt.
there was no blood, there was no bruised neck,
no emetic remains from bitter chocolates.
just a frozen and blank girl, she who lay for you
rested for you to see, showing you what it means to take
your own life.
to wish for death so strong you feel it every waking hour,
every sleeping minute, and always when you dream.

she was the type of girl who liked closure,
she packed her boxes, wrote a short note explaining what
the next person would find.
there was no blood.
pure oxygen caused her suicide- pure life.
took her without mercy, at her own hands,
the truth is a sour and unforgiving taste-
and we taste it well, she loved, she loves no more.

he was the type of guy, who never told anyone his feelings,
watched and waited, told himself everyday he would do it.
talk to her, touch her, know her, tell her,
but it seemed all this phantom could do was watch.
wept at her funeral, shook a wilting rose onto her coffin-
and again watched, watched his rose fall and watched his
girl descend.
so at night, he watches the moon, stares at it
keeping his eyes fixed on this reflected source of light.

© Lucy Griffin June05


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