Through frozen gates with rusted lock
A sulking skel’ in mouldring frock
Just sits, a grim and ghastly shade
Who got what he, when dying, bade:
His soul and body bound through death!
Though e’er starved for God’s sweet breath
All fury, in futility, insect kissed
The black attraction in the cemetery mist.
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Author:
Fränz Müller (
Offline) - Published: January 5th, 2026 22:37
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
Offline)
Comments1
This poem starts as a horror spectacle then in metaphor becomes just deserts for the past. Nicely worded it leaves a dark image. Well done
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