My Intimate Poetry: Ink.

Hello lovely readers, a man named Alfred Tennyson who took Love and questioned its sustainability. He pondered what the fate of Love would be when it encountered Death. So I question what is the fate of Love after abandonment? 

Some are scorned by sin and marked by rejection. ― Tammy-Louise Wilkins

A lucid trail of black,
Traced by the venom from his tongue.
A searing mark of scrawled wrack,
Each puncture of flesh stung.

Calligraphy’s stain;
The words rumble in her throat.
Upon this skin she scripts her pain,
A piece of parchment to twine his quote.

Ink leaks its tears;
A tepid droplet rolls down her cheek.
On this scorched surface the despondency smears;
Colliding with darkness into one pristine streak.

One word uttered blackens her mind,
Coloured by emotion’s detached dye.
A parting message splattered then refined,
Upon this skin it whispers one word and that is “Goodbye.”

2012 © Tammy-Louise Wilkins


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