I did this in my english class, and decided to put it on here cause I am so weird...

Februarys, as cold as a blown out fire,

She thought, looking in the snow.

She got up, and gazed into the morning sun,

And tried to get the feeling back in her toes.


February is springs first breath,

She spoke into the wood.

Then she stopped dead in her tracks,

As she remember were she stood.


It was right here, in 1720,

Where I met the man who controlled me.

The one who thought I was his,

And he sat in the chair, and offered me tea.


He never let me leave him,

He treat me like a slave.

And every single day I waited,

Waited for my grave.


It was at this spot he fell,

His blood was a deep red.

As I walked away, feeling free,

He led and stared into the clouds, Dead.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed