Through the white halls the ghosts slip;
crossing past plastic chairs, hissing sharp sibilants.
Sterile stares, superstitious and blue,
for the sick and the pale's mid-death prayers won't come true.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
First draft:
Through the white halls the ghosts are slipping
crossing past plastic chairs, hissing sharp sibilants
and relishing off the shivering goose-bumps;
the superstitious prayers of the sick, mid-death.













Comments
--
It's that terrifying place where loneliness itself will make her forget how to smile...
--
"We're Actors- We're the opposite of people."
Tom Stoppard
--
Some days I write those words, others they write me.
--
Some days I write those words, others they write me.
--
what we choose is never what we really need
*VampireWriters|=PoetryPlease|*Writers-Workshop|=ScribeSanctuary
--
Some days I write those words, others they write me.
--
Some days I write those words, others they write me.
--
what we choose is never what we really need
*VampireWriters|=PoetryPlease|*Writers-Workshop|=ScribeSanctuary
Previous Page12Next Page