Hostage

willows weeping

with my eyes feeding

their sap,

I run, run away

deeper

where sulphur shower

in the spring

soaks my whims,

autumn building a bed

where I can rest my head

I roll in decay,

the spirits say,

a beginning

perpetuating in a

solemn ending

the godly pines

preaching, their hearts cold,

their cones so terribly cunning;

in no time

I call myself a hostage.

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© 2021 Sheena Shah. All Rights Reserved.

Sheena Shah is a dark poet with a deep fixation on escaping reality. A maladaptive daydreamer and an avid reader, her quest is to find peace of mind and a potion to tame her tumultuous soul. You can find her lurking on Twitter and Instagram.