Evening Landscape of the Soul

I could never dream of hell
as pure as this uncertainty.
The coffers of the soul
are holding dust and little else.
Hell in this cloud of mind is then
the grey and pregnant skies,
above the cranes and scaffolding
that I can see from work’s window.
A sense of rotting, time stretched out,
an emptiness where life should be...
The crypt is yawning, tiredness
the weeds that choke the ancient lea.
Divorced of human hope,
the tower holds just years, and rope.
Written by Casted_Runes (Mr Karswell)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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