A poem about memory. |
In the early days of winter; when the chilling omens blew across the dormant valley, dressed in ashen hue. Was in the late of even, ere night had killed the day; I wandered on the moorland, upon forgotten ways. I sat upon a riven stone, and thought about the past. I thought about a ruined wish and dreams that didn't last. I thought about a broken home. About a lullaby. I thought about a vibrant love and how that love had died. I thought about the hate that flashed like flint on tempered steel. I wondered why the words still hurt, the pain was still so real. I thought about how Rome had burned as I had played my games I'd spent the years in empty tasks; and never saw the flames. They rose around me like the fires of Hell that know no time. I saw it all, at last. Too late! For heartless pantomime had hidden from me for so long the truth behind façade; of alabaster purity, It was naught but cruel fraud. My towers fell, my castles burned Apocalypse had come. The vultures soared above my head and screamed my requiem. I pondered then forgiveness. A thing I could not find within my heart to give to grant. "Forgiveness is Divine!" A wind whipped then beneath my coat. I drew my collar tight. The wind was fierce and biting cold, It heralded the night. I saw around me in the dim shadows of a fading light. |