And it was humongous,
extravagant, congratulated fever.
Filled with expenses and riches,
blessed be its royal stupor.
Occupied by a greedy man,
who crusades away in gold.
With but a thousand stories,
of tales, that have been told.
Adorned by laughter and light,
and silver and nature's green.
From pauper to richness,
and dark, royal means.
For there sits the king,
in solitude, in his own home.
While the birds sing their tune,
a duet of their own selves alone.
Excluded from perfection,
and sheathed by the walls.
For beyond his reflection,
the demons walk within his halls.
And he cries, 'help me for an eternity flair,'
but he only gets, the demons who make him succumb into despair.
YOU ARE READING
Poesy of Eloquence
Poetry❝ this tragedy is soaked with tears that dry the ink in my hands. ❞ ━ the poesy I've yearned to release ever since I taught myself to pick up the pen and write. ❝ for if the painting of my words be the garden upon the gate of heaven, glimpse them...
