Blood #poetry

Spilled blood it trickles down the stairs,

Pooling, drying, cold,

This blood that once ran through my veins,

Is now a story to be told.

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Moth #poetry

Poor old Mr Moth he flies,

His wings are frail and weak,

He flutters about after light,

His soft demeanour, meek,

I wonder why he keeps it up,

The search of endless hope,

I’m not sure that I could keep

it going, or even simply cope,

But then I guess I’ll never know,

How it is to flutter by,

A lonely, sad and haunting moth,

Waiting his time to die.