There was a child
Who longed to live
Life and true love
Of which he’d give.
Dreams of sunlight
And garden trees
Bearing much fruit;
Ripening to please.
Days of innocence,
Of playful dreams,
Came to a hault
Like dried up streams.
The garden a pox,
Death it became,
Dusty and desolate,
A remorseful shame.
His house a tomb,
Cursed with decay.
The boy now a man,
Innocence betrayed.
Dust and bones,
A mortal coil,
The living dead
Becoming a foil.
Withered garden,
A decrepit tomb,
There’s no way to
Retreat to the womb.
Death-head agape,
Displayed on a shelf.
The boy’s a phantom,
Of his former self.
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Online) - Published: January 3rd, 2019 00:32
- Category: Gothic
- Views: 32
Online)
Comments2
Very interesting and well written...please see my poem "Phantoms"...take care...Happy New Year
Thanks! Will do. Happy New Year to you too!
Be a phoenix not a phantom?
🙁
Thanks for reading!
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