Dark and cloudy.
The place where I lay.
A mother weeps.
For her taken child.
Watching this crumbling world.
Waiting for those last words.
Of humble grievance,
to which I know.
With a knife in my chest,
and a gun to my left.
I lie for my final descent.
In my grave I lay.
Hidden below,
from the world above.
To say a thing, I wish I’d said,
My Death is Unseen.
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Author:
Alfred Lord Tennyson (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 26th, 2018 06:56
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 27
Offline)
Comments1
Very dark piece. I hope it is metaphorical. I know the feeling of dying unseen each day.
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