I regret nothing, I told the Reverend
Neither evil nor good, polite or irreverent
My hands welcome the Reaper as a guest in my home
lest my soul wander, cold and alone.
Let her hand guide me to the Land of the Dead
Where my soul may rest on a cloudlike bed
Nothing like Wraiths, who forever weep and moan
With an absence of feeling in a land where the living roam.
Our eternal curse, to never know true rest
The mark of mortality, a cruel, sadistic jest
To cry the moment you are born, no laugh, no look of delight
While terrors walk in the shadows, we lay vulnerable in the night.
While the few rise as the renowned, with fame and riches in hand
most fall into obscurity, faceless bodies that litter the land
The few reach for immortality, like bards, warriors, and kings
Flocks of Icarus soaring to the sun, fall down with smoldering wings.
As my vision dims and my skin turns cold
I stand beside Death, walking the afterlife road
The pain has ended, my fire, nothing but an ember
Extinguished in the night, twentyfifth of December.
BINABASA MO ANG
My Little Black Book of Poems and Stories
RandomAs an aspiring writer, I sometimes have what I like to call, 'brain farts'. Some of them come at me at the perfect time, some just happen while I'm in the middle of doing something. Nevertheless, the result is me writing it down and making a literar...
