Sheath thy sword, thee
Are not meant to taste
The simples't o' pleasures.
Oh thy are but accursed,
From the heavens you condemned.
Thee are not coming back from
Thy war
Alive.
Hark! The vultures flyin'
O'er the mountains,
Thee flesh has already
Begun to stink.
Does ye know?
I am the Valkyrie who
Wrote thy name in
Mine parchment.
Thy life will spiral like
A whirlwind, out of control,
Till it ends up in
My possession.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
