A tranquil road bridge of arcadia,
where the sun and moon are always foreseen,
and a broken boat lies.
As soothe of the sound rain splashes on everything the sun and moon see,
our oldest foe, Death, silently creeps.
The place where people cheered the existence,
helped them cross a long path anon,
has become impure.
Beyond the embankment above the waters,
he stood in silence,
grinning ear to ear under his hood.
How ironic;
where Life used to be,
now Death is living.
YOU ARE READING
Lacuna
Poetrylacuna - 𝑎 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑒, 𝑎 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥. 𝐈𝐟 𝐰𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡.