Is it true, Mother dear, what I have been told?
Do monsters exist, from the legends of old?
The son of the Baker, inquired with fright,
his mind running free, out into the night.
Out in the world, are goblins and ghouls,
any who doubt, are said to be fools.
The witches and ghosts do live in this world,
the living dead walk from the mist that has swirled.
Although there is evil, good must and will rise,
sending bad spirits up into the skies.
By dawn there is peace, the darkness will fail,
but again in the night, it will soon prevail.
The Baker kneeled down, next to her third son,
the only one left, the others have run.
My dearest child, the legends of old,
some may be true, others yet to unfold.
The youngest of three, his brothers deceased,
his fear now slowly being released.
If you say, Mother dear, that this is to be true,
I will be brave, I'll be brave for you.
With a grin and a laugh, they hugged with their might,
a peck on the cheek and a whispered 'Good night'.
The son now in bed, peers out in the night,
only to find a frightening sight.
The darkness they say holds stories untold,
for in the light we've found legends of old.
If you are to look through the dark in a daze,
beware the red orbs, returning your gaze.
YOU ARE READING
Burnt Memories
PoesiaA collection of poems written by myself. If some seem to be less descriptive or meaningful than others, it may be one I had written back in 2012. I might even pull out some from 2008, when I was seven and eight years old. So yes, that means I am...
