Black nylon sits tight
Covering what pulses through
The veins visible behind
Her pale wrists
Once there was something else
Something that boiled all of her scarlet
And pushed her to fight
But years have broken her down
Eroded her spirit
And she sits here now
Propped up against a wall
That she’d relied on to keep
Her legs firm when the fight left
There’s no time for tears
Just time for silence
It’s cold against the flesh
Tattered and torn
On her back.
The tights are all she has
Her tights and the silence
That envelops her
Without him.


About Greg Moss

25 year old English and Media Graduate based in Manchester, UK. Contact me at:
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2 Responses to Cottage

  1. I love this. I really enjoy all of your writing!


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