As the moon melts into silver,
Wind ripples along the river.
Drops of blood drip and dissolve in the flow,
The blood turns into water and just glows.
The blood drips from a girl's right wrist,
The left hand of whom is clenched into a fist.
The fist has a knife still held in it,
Traces of blood still glowing crimson on it.
Her dark hair spills across her beautiful face,
The tears from her eyes are keeping pace:
With the blood trickling.
Although they have nothing to do with physical aching.
Suicide is sure born out of cowardice,
But what if a person is left no choice.
Slowly her eyes open as if in a trance,
On her bloodstained wrist she takes a dreamy glance.
Trembling, terrified that she'll live,
She takes her knife and deepens the slit.
The blood flows faster now, faster than the river,
Though the fastest are her tears as she dies in a shiver.
Isabella Francis's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Shiver by Isabella Francis )
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