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This for the Depth Challenge thing, but you know.... Me, actally write a good poem when I'm actually trying? BUt I have a reason for sucking. See...I'm sixteen. *Loves having an age as an excuse to fall back on. blushes* Anyways...
The warmth trickled over my leg
In soft droplets of coppery blood
The smell a pungent stench in the cooling air
Mixed with powder of the cooling gun.
I held the head within my lap,
Fingers tangled in sticky hair,
Snow drifting to land on the ground below
As the blood stained the white to pink.
It took me a moment to realize the salt
And warmth in form of liquid
Trailing down my face were tears,
As clear and blue as the eyes now ruined
Standing clearer than ever against the red stains
Covering pale skin like horrendous paint.
While those eyes moved around the last time,
The hand lifting to idly brush the old
Shakepearean clothing we had worn to the Ren. Fair,
Sprinkled with brown and glittered in gold,
I watched my lover cough a small laugh
Despite the hole clear through her throat.
Gazing up through red strands of hair
Knotted from the constant fumbling of my fingers,
After the bullet had flown on the way home
From that play she had loved called “Hamlet”,
I could see the appreciation of the irony even then.
And with a little smirk,
Her eyes giving full sway to the grin
Her weakening muscles could not support,
I heard her gasp out in the last words she would say:
“Horatio…I am dying.
Horatio…I’m dead.”
You can stop laughing now.
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