You know its kind of funny,
When you look back in time,
And realise,
How lucky you are to be born now,
But if you visit their graves,
The ones made 700 years ago,
Stones carved with blood and sweat,
The body of a unique and agerasia soul,
Lying underneath,
Beautiful designs,
One's alive until now,
But aren't you glad?
That its only the designs alive,
And not their ways,
Their nefarious ways,
Of how they used to bury their baby daughters,
Thought of women as a disgrace and burden,
The poor slaving away and the rich living,
Black being looked down on,
Especially if it was on someones skin,
Not being able to live as yourself,
And feelings being forced.
Back then hireath was common.
But well maybe,
Just maybe,
Its not all forgoten,
Some still managed to stick around,
Just like the ethereal desing,
Its just that now,
We know that you are nothing for the world after death,
So why work so hard on your grave?
Maybe thats why our graves are no longer decorated as thrones,
We now know the worth,
Of the person,
And his end.
Yours forever,
Mephoria.
YOU ARE READING
Epiphame
Poetry"So then I dyed my voice a beautiful shade of grey. Not too bright and not too loud." ۞۞ Epiphany + Me Epiphame: A sudden realisation dawning upon Me. ۞۞ In this poetry book I will be writing about things that I feel should be brought forward mor...
