A pantomime of feelings to preform,
without a cast or crew,
the thunder’s closing quickly now,
but soon it will be through
A sea of broken bones to cross
with out a rowing boat
We fear to plunge in mindlessly
in case our heavy hopes don’t float
A vanity encased in a worn out silver box,
Locked away beside it too, is a mind degrading pox
A fierce and bitter envy,
starved to death it seems,
without a single trace of what friendship really means
A whisper in the courtyard,
as the hangman does his deed,
A strained and awful tear,
for the knight that lost his steed
A single dance of pity
for the maid without a lord
And a lonely drawn out symphony,
for the injured in the wards.
Our cries for help left unanswered,
by those in mortal shells,
with only cries of vengeance from those that promise hell.
A single purple rose
upon a shattered frozen tomb,
does bring about the honesty that healing comes,
© Copyright 2016 EwanMac. All rights reserved.
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