deepundergroundpoetry.com

Stitched Tune

 
By ever-unholy of mid'nights,    
hot sands are nearing plight.  
Time be a bitter toll for all  
rushing to ward last flight.  
   
Pity rings my well 'round aplenty  
on crisp of Hades' bell.  
I shine and sing hushed ditty  
to no one that could tell.  
   
Flouncing in petal strewn circle  
of vinous standing stones,  
I woe a stitched tune gone aching  
to grave holes and their home.  
   
I hymn of raw darkened somber  
that eats away my strength.  
I lull past-living to hear me  
in light of form's fresh links.  
   
Serrated wounds spill out as daggers  
I freshly grind frame aches.  
Whittle bright tunes toward sunrise  
embracing life's final stake.  
   
Crisp stains cover a shining soul  
grasping for 'body' peace,  
within silent rose-casted yards  
where yet, only death shall weep.  
Written by darksighs
Published | Edited 20th Jul 2015
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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