The dead remain silent,
Below a world so dark.
Cursing the souls that reside above.
Plagued by the dead man's curse,
The day goes on.
But as night draws close,
The darkness takes hold.
An untouched place,
Where light resides.
A blessing of life,
To spare the few.
As life goes on,
The curse grows weary.
And the blessing moves on.
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Author:
Alfred Lord Tennyson (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 29th, 2019 11:05
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: swyndell
Offline)
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