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White Noise
January 25, 2016
The snow falls down from the sky,
Like amorphous puffs of bland powder,
The perfect setting to mull,
Multifarious, yet dull.
Her soul is whittled away,
The demons belabor over it,
There is no one to invigilate,
Just the monsters debasing her mind.
She drinks the emetic,
To purge herself of pain,
Her mind in a remote area,
No poignancy left to spare.
The lines are left broken,
With dots scattered across her vision,
Her instincts destroyed forever,
The pain reaching endlessly.
© Maria B., Boston, MA
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