Masquerade even in death.

by blossom666

A constant stream of well wishing’s of death

empty thoughts are all they have left.

They speak of your greatness your sorrow and pain

of the drink that you sunk to keep yourself sane.

Few of us know the truth in that bottle

the reason your skin is blackened with mottle.

Biting my tongue I turn away

fearsome of what it is I might say.

There’s a story to have, a story to tell,

a story that damns you to the pits of hell.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

 

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