But they did not.

6 3 2
                                                  

You ask me

what it is I weep for

It is for this:

Imagine

A dust covered bloom

whose thin sickly veil

sees neither sun nor shadow

no fears water her nor smiles colour her

She is just

under the motion of time

to rot & live

in a timeless confine

without a word to wisen

nor a hand to guide

no audience cheers for her

no critics berate

It is just in this — indescribable place

that she pats in desperate dark

to find a boundary, a place — But

there is no place, no ground,

no even air for her to breathe.

She is eternal & no one knows

for no breath was given for her to bloom.

She is the lost treasure of every man

the decay of an unheard dream

whose voiceless calls could only be heard

as the shuddering of the soul.

Still yet, She caws and She crows,

shivering the mind mad,

but hands move not,

cannot,

as the eyes watch the edge of forever,

inch closer by,

And it is for this that I weep,

for all those lost great spasms of the soul,

whose inked blood could have coloured the world free,

had they, but just this or that happenstance,

But they did not.

A Collection of 10 darker poemsWhere stories live. Discover now