In two hundred years
We will be a whisper on the page
Of a history book.
Each page crisp,
And as the years go by,
They will be damaged,
Vandalised,
Forgotten.
Like us.
We may matter now
But no one matters forever.
Every word we utter
Is an empty promise
Of the life we hold.
Gone
Forgotten
A whisper.
Thats all we ever were and ever will be.
A whisper in the song of history.
YOU ARE READING
Fervid- A collection of poems
PoetrySome poetry I wrote- Mostly about love and more disturbing topics. You have been warned.
