Recommended Posts

Sitting before the warmth of a burning fire,

Thoughts of yesterday swirl through my mind.

Gone are the romantic castles, dark and dire,

silently, corridors in them are dying.

No longer can spirits floursh,

Discovery, realism are the assassins.

Spirts must die, in the pages of time,

Returning only in the dreams of compassion.

Share this post

Link to post
Share on other sites
This topic is now closed to further replies.
Sign in to follow this