The tomb of our past was
filled with nasty skulls where
the ashes of our memories
kept on visiting me at night.
They made me smile but
all they left to me was a
cloudy state of the mind.
And when night breaks in,
I started singing, not
our song but a requiem
to bury our dead dreams.
The ghost of our past
was a beautiful reverie
of nightmare I could
not simply bury nor unsee.
As I bewail for them,
I became stronger as
the grave rises in number.
And now, I had prepared
a coffin as the deathbed for
the next guy whom I will
entomb if he chooses to die.
YOU ARE READING
Blued Lines
PoesiaTo those whose heart has been ripped apart, you're not alone in the boat. If you think that poets write wonderful lines and echoing endings, then you got it wrong because we also get broken and as you read each poem, the sadder and painful it become...
