a poem by Annabel Michel

“I could tell you a lot of things.”
He expected to hear sweet nothings.
Lust filled words travelling through the dust.
But I shot him with the truth,
Expecting him to bleed red in Remorse.
Instead he bled black in Denial.
No admission of guilt.
But really what did I expect?
for him to bleed red in remorse.

SheWrites

Although you are not dead, I mourned you. Though your words
and all you said would be true. But Lies left your lips like lyrics
what a beautiful tune.
Song made out of fallacies and deception
As you played your harp hypnotizing my heart.
Thought I was your special muse

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