SHE WEEPS BLACK
- May 1
- 1 min read
By Georgina O'Neill
The tears fall like blood,
Thick, deliberate, unforgiven.
She weeps the pain that almost died
But pain never dies.
It sleeps beneath her ribs,
Waking when the night forgets its stars.
A corner of her mind festers
Black, swollen with hate, hurt, anger, death.
No light dares touch it.
If it ever broke its chains,
Freedom itself would bleed.
The paws of darkness claw through,
Raking the walls she rebuilds in vain.
Each barrier crumbles,
Each scar hums with memory
A hymn of the damned, soft and slow.
Her mind will never fly for freedom.
It is rotted, branded by shadows.
The dove was white once;
Now half its feathers drip with ash.
It beats one trembling wing,
The other, torn and slick with grief.
Still, it moves
Not toward the sun, but toward the void
That hums her name in silence.
She breathes in dust and sorrow,
Exhales nothing.
Her voice has forgotten how to echo.
And yet, she still weeps
Each tear a confession,
Each drop a seed of ruin.
For every tear that falls like blood,
Another thought turns black.
She is both tomb and mourner,
Both darkness,
And the dove.