The land's grown dark and desolate,
wounded, glum and dry.
It bleeds what good is left for now
and all upon it die.
Within its capitol there stands
a crippled throne of misery
and on that throne sit I.
My thoughts each day are clouded
at the sin which cost my grace,
reminded daily of my crime
by oozing wounds of punishment
reflected on my face.
All hope seems gone,
and prayers ignored
to save this ravaged land,
as daily all that once was good
is shed from here
and disappears,
like sea-shells in the sand.
One day, they say,
a soul will come,
a spirit pure as rain,
to find that grace,
lost in disgrace,
and make us whole again.
Now all that I can do is wait
enduring that cruel stroke,
delivered by good Balin's spear,
deserved by me,
this misery
that even brave men fear.
I doubt that I'll be well once more,
for many good men tried.
They come to heal
this ruined king
and in the trying, died.
I spend my time upon this stream.
I fish to ease my pain,
as daily,
darkness fills the skies
with torment's grim refrain.
Oh take me now,
my Lord, my King,
forgive this poor soul's stain.
Please save this land
with your great hand
and make it whole again.
YOU ARE READING
A Mind's Eye
PoetryA collection of poems grown from myth and mind. Gods, monsters, and mortal men in a variety of poetic forms. Narratives and allegories as deeply rooted in the psyches of modern humanity, as in the civilizations that planted those seeds. Songs from d...
