With tall trees and emerald grass.
Sit several generations both young and old,
All together in somber harmony with a seat left empty,
A hole left to be filled and a plate left to be made,
The phantom of what was, becoming a dimly lit memory,
The ghost of the past becomes a wish to be in the present,
The gift of passing being the most sorrowful but also the most peaceful,
For it's a gift only given to the strongest of soldiers,
That strength proven with each battle faced,
And each trouble overcame.
YOU ARE READING
Forgotten Thorns
PoetryJust a collection of all my sad and probs cringe poetry about stuff from current and past events(including trauma)! TRIGGER WARNING(S)!: Depictions of S/H, Gore, SA, Childhood Trauma, Mental illness, etc
