Fatal is the harsh blow
That cuts deepest the wounds
From which the blood doth flow
And wherein dark death blooms
Who halts to listen well
To the shrill, distant cry?
For whom doth aged bell
Toll its haunting reply?
Ghostly app'rition stares
With vengeful malcontent.
Its horrid finger bares
Blame to its dark intent.
Haunted is the lost one
Who at death's door awaits.
Lo, the evil that's won;
It never dissipates.
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Offline) - Published: October 4th, 2017 17:47
- Category: Gothic
- Views: 42
- Users favorite of this poem: Mugsdaddy
Offline)
Comments2
Yes, perfect for this time of year. Very well written. ; )
Thank you so much. Glad you liked it!
Really really good I like the flow and the style excellent write.
Mugsdaddy
Thank you so much.
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