poem by Aimaproject ©

On an old rocking-chair
betrayed bride
you receive the dust of years
in the lace of your wedding dress
no more white
your future
reflected in the blade of a knife
awaits
for the tracherous lover’s preaches

Madness
betrayed bride
has deformed your face
limpid and viscious slaver’s stalactites
go down slowly
from your mouth:
wish of blood
dissatisfied
for years.

but your soul will rise higher, higher
I feel your soul
rising higher
I feel your soul rising
higher, higher

Your knife will cut
deep wounds
of hate and revenge,
while your soul will rise

higher

no, it’s a lie,
you won’t rise so higher
but you’ll cast in the hell of your soul.