There are humans that rise out of the ash
They are molded from the ground with care
Their limbs are spun with moss;
Their hair with silk.
There are humans that feel with fervor
Their souls consist of rain and beams of moonlight
Sentiment is their language; emotions are their words
They dance in patches of light
They celebrate under the twinkle of stars
Their desires are simple,
But they are not.
The deceased return to ashes;
Mourning is as common as elation
The breezes plague them,
The storms are disastrous
Whole villages swept away,
Ashes piled high
With lone survivors roaming the nearby forests
The humans have gold for blood,
And pearl for bones.
They are the undiscovered ones
Who return to the Earth as suddenly as they arrive
YOU ARE READING
I am a Sucker for Pretty Words Masking Dark Thoughts
PoetryI occasionally write super depressing poetry/ snafus of writing. I honestly don't follow any specific type (rhyme schemes, etc.) because I prefer them to be fluid. The one thing is, it's generally an unreliable narrator.
