Gazing upon the relics of the spirits,
Mazed by the perpetuity,
The oracles and scribes,
The scribbles they couldn't break.
She wakes up,
Eyes soaked in tears,
Chained and enslaved,
Futile from the snares,
The fears within,
Unawares of the enemy entangling her.
Curseth she is,
It dwells within,
She looks for restitution,
Neither the deity,
Nor the mediums,
Nor the oracles' crystal-ball,
Could give her solace.
Poor girl,
Coy and graceful,
Cherished,
Relished her past,
Veneration is all that's left,
As her harbingers presaged,
The price of abasement to the relic!
YOU ARE READING
THE BOY ON THE BRIDGE.
PoetryThe weakest ink harbors the strongest minds. A collection of thoughts that will blow your mind. Some emotions laced herein are quirky, any similarity to real characters is just a mere coincidence*
