Skin and bone may make a trove,
Who are those who treasure those?
Time had fled and so had skin,
Leaving behind a bony film.
I once saw those who coveted those,
Set them in a glass box surrounded by their foes,
Told those who asked,
that they were Kings of Old.
I saw no crowns on their heads,
Nor a word on their beds,
If there were I could not decipher,
The intricacies of ancient literature.
Yet they said those bones were migthy,
Of those descendant from divine deities.
There was no name nor a single proof,
For the contents in it were all but loot.
What that remained was a brown old coin,
They said that it was a cursed old toy.
Time had flown and once again,
The museum was a pillage fest.
They left no Gold nor silver wares,
All that was left was a bony lair.
No stories can be told about rotten bones,
What do the scholars make of those?
YOU ARE READING
Symphony Of Sorrow
PoetrySome people say it is better to have love and lost, than to have never loved at all. But when that love is gone, you realise it would have been better if you hadn't met them after all. For nothing lasts forever, No love stands forever, And no lo...
