Poes Pen
It is not bound in blood and tearsBut the ink is lasting dreams and fears
Resting now it sits sealed in glass
It will never meet its critical mass
Stones of time wither and crumble
Before its presence even gods are humble
Resting it lays on ornamented old wood
Within a soul, misunderstood
Filled with dreams and wicked words
A tongue as sharp as thousand swords
Never will it meet paper and pain again
There it lays, mister Poes descending pen
Poetry by Cr4Ky
Read 1130 times
Written on 2012-02-02 at 11:29
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Blilith |
Melissa Ormond |
Texts |
by Cr4Ky Latest textsPoes PenStar-struck When there are only two ways to go A pig in the Lounge Bring A Shovel My favoritesRain[My tears] Only the dark shall see |
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