the only vibrating sound
is the echo of something that was supposed to be a poem
My muse has no face,
not even a heartbeat,
but a heart left to rot.
I’m bleeding for a thousand soldiers,
as darkness is tearing me apart
Dying, a last thought is crossing my mind —
On the battle field,
I hear Death whispering my name,
and a promise that I will be eternal.
I lay my soul in a grave of hopes,
and I put on a crown that’s made of bones
The war is nearly ending
and i’m coming home,
seeking my one true love.