Atop a hill are three old graves:
A father, mother, and a love long past.
Standing before it, emotion is stirred in waves,
And he is earning to be the last.
He reaches out to touch one stone.
Was it ten, twenty years ago?
That he came to visit here alone
Just to be able to let go.
His heart is still - no longer beating,
Yet he lives on
With centuries fleeting,
His time is frozen, yet he has not won.
That painful night he remembers well.
The flames, the deaths and the shrills,
He couldn't hold, couldn't quell
His rage as the blood chalice fills.
Will he forever be alone?
Forced by the Gods to atone
For his misdeeds of ages past
Until his soul is free at last.
YOU ARE READING
P-P-P-Poetry
PoetryMy amateur attempts at writing poetry. Don't expect too much, as this is as silly as it can be. Some though, may end up having deep meaning.
