PoetrySad Poems

Her Death

She could smell the hate in their breaths,
Their eyes twitching with distaste,
Tracked her every move,
She stumbled again
The hate became visible,
She could taste it,
It pressed in around her,
Their jeers were hill-sized potholes,
Trapping her feet at every step,
She pushed against it,
Her breath was stifled,
Her eyes blinded by their misgivings,
She fell,
Her legs like weak broomsticks seemed too tiny for her mass,
She crawled,
The weight of their blames,
Held her captive to the cold floor,
She wept,
Yet no tears ran down her cheeks,
She puffed her last breath,
Even then, the pressure followed the wisp of her soul,
As it flew away from her empty shell,
The pressure pushed against her chest,
Against her mind, against her will,
Her essence is gone,
Her memories fluttered in the air behind it,
At her tombstone lay a withered stalk,
The only witness to her lonely existence,
That girl who was murdered by the very thing she lived for.

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