Ailing and weak, the man did lie,
In his plight, death drew nigh.
Not of death, he held no dread,
But missing his child's play, instead.
A thousand years, his wish to be,
Yet not even a century, did he foresee.
Days filled with tears, his heart confined,
Ere his departure, his thoughts entwined.
Now in a deep grave, the stone lies cold,
A weeping widow, memories unfold.
Silent son, left in sorrow's heft,
The remnants left, bereft and bereft.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryI'm presenting a collection of poems I've personally written. Each one stands as an independent creation, though some may intertwine through common themes. These poems reflect my innermost feelings, and in certain instances, they echo fragments of...
