Writing poetry is like creating your own maze with words that only certain souls will understand. The Wraith In wicked tears and holy dread, He raises shadow to the sky. Foresworn the oath of common blood, The winded youth has turned to nigh. He erraticates the flushing heart, And drinks of legend born to be. It is he who has rekindled fire, And ignited potent misery. Beneath encrusted skin and bone, The wraith has settled comfortably. He cannot shift or carry song, For now he is a part of thee. A dream aflame the beggar waits, To be released from heavens tree. The wraith has consumed all that it will, The youth has taken all from me.
Posted on: Wed, 08 Oct 2014 21:08:56 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015