Stone, Gold Heart
With a golden touch,
with the might of his hand.
His darling didn't mean much.
he massacred creation,
with his golden obsession.
The King craved for it all,
the honeysuckle moan of
a loved scarred the fall.
Their skin crawled, hands
lay wimp of scorn,
a rustic siren call,
For he craved the luxuries,
The beauty— of the dead
in gold.
YOU ARE READING
LAWLESS
PoetrySeduction, Malice, Insanity- a collection of not giving a damn: LAWLESS. ©W.R. Harker
