Cold Hands, a poem by Adam White, poet

She wants to rise from the last of her ashes,
And cover the world in her waves of allure.
She wants to rise where the men can all see her,
And choke in great piles on the sand of her shores.

Her arms are wide open, but cool and unwelcome,
And a cold, hollow stare that leaves him struck dumb.
The hearts of his friends are all filled up with scorn,
Healing his body of the scars from her thorns.

He wakes in the night all covered with sweat,
The sheets on his skin made sticky and wet.
He thinks of her touch, not unkind as such,
And writhes in his consciousness, wrapped in her clutch.

The world is a blur, when compared to her,
His lover, his heroin, all that he needs.
Her caress is painful, fingers are needles,
He's wasted, malnourished, but ever she feeds.

He believes he is fine. His habit is nothing,
But you see on the surface, the sanity cracking.
The blood in his eyes. The way that he lies.
No-one can help him, nobody his friend.
Everyone knows there's one way this can end.
No-one can help him, nobody's his friend.
Everyone knows the way this will end.

Now he's a shadow,
Once tall and handsome,
Blue were his eyes, now made grey and empty
Dead in the gutter, broken and bent,
The smell of decay and her sick perfume scent.

From a window above, she stared at his corpse,
Before eyeing a passerby, lost in his thoughts.
She sees the art in him, and that makes him hers,
His muse and his murderer warm in her furs.


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