By: rachel anne more

Like the last morning dewdrops
Clinging to the flowers,
She hung to him.
The small rivers running down
Her tear streaked face
Yelling, punching, and kicking
Like an angry child.
Her perfectly placed hair
Whipping around her face.
The clothes slowly torn to shreds
Making her appear like a beggar.
The final sparkle of her eyes
Fading into oblivion.
He slams the door behind him
Leaving her paralyzed on the floor,
With anger, hope, and burning desire.
She heard him tuning the engine
it turned the knife in her heart.
She knows not when the world went blank
Abruptly shoving her into darkness.
She could only find him
Causing the defeating turmoil, we call sleep.