Posted in Poetry

The Rusted Soul

Her eyes had this inexplicable sadness

The kind of sadness that only eyes of an ancient soul could reflect. 

She wrapped herself in aloofness like it was a Pashmina shawl.

Apologies danced around the tip of her tongue

like a ballerina on a stage,

It almost seemed like she was sorry for her existence. 

People came to her and cried out their grief

Because oh how well she listened.

Her soul was starting to rust

Like someone’s first bicycle long forgotten in the rain.

But none could see her misery,

None realised despite that strong facade,

She needed a hand in helping her sew her torn heart back together. 


Just another wannabe writer.

12 thoughts on “The Rusted Soul

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