Etched
in blood and sculpted in stone
Lay
the verses cold, he once wrote,
Shaded
in paleness of the fallen leaves
The
grave silent, no echo ever conceives.
And
just at night, he cries her name,
Screaming
within the burning heart
Nothing
consoles his destined shame
For
the daring night hides, the gloomy day departs.
A
poet by midnight, dreamer by day,
Darker
in thoughts, living a shadowy dismay,
For
light elude his existence
Yet
he has more to convey.
Walking
slowly into a forgotten path
With
silence still tasting the same,
The
pain in heart still remains
For
the guilt and sorrow never fades away.
And
the pages foretells a tale of love
Where
death betokens the broken ties,
And
tears smear through his written verses
For
all he could write are final goodbyes.
