Whispers
How must I live,
Amongst fulfilment so fleeting,
Joys so pedantic,
In Rancor I am seething.
The love of lovers naught,
Tales poetic never bred,
All that blood was never beautiful,
It just stained red
Passions flow evermore freely,
For in hatred of the kin,
No reprimands from the gods,
No love, immorality or sin
Comments
Post a Comment