evergreen
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writingInsult flinging is her art
Storm raises his ugly head,
expectantly we cower away.
Yet still he stands, determined to fight the battle;
proud, or foolish enough to try and win?
Like screaming madmen they fight,
each clawing to reach the pinnacle.
Hot tempers erupt, scorching everything in sight.
Insult flinging is her art
We call her storm,
and tremble when she blows
Bruises fade, no longer seen
scar tissue never heals.
So it spreads rampant;
festering, like gangrene.
Feeding on memories
never seeing light.
And still I look on, almost
an innocent bystander.
Disease spreads it fingers;
infecting every crevasse,
needling and plucking every part of her.
She becomes lost to it.
Her name is guilt
the silent killer.
EG.....[/u]
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