Poetry
1 min
The Light
Michael Lynch
The dew, sitting on the roses, as the statue in a frozen pose is, calling out to light that glows is, keeping my soul in full expose.
The lords, the kings, the dirty peasants, holding memories so pleasant, loving past and shaming present, feeding at my soul.
The light it fades, from higher days, feeding kings its brighter praise, soon the moonlight's stunning rays, feeding at my soul.
The wood, it feeds into the fire, bringing down the king's empire, these thoughtless dreams of which I tire, feeding at my soul.
Soon the king finds all his riches, burning down from broken stitches, finally knowing what real rich is, eating at his soul.
Anoint his head in holy oils, but still the feeling burns and boils, now his riches finally foiled, eating at his soul.
Throw him down upon the stone, to die in much a darker tone, riches gone now poor is known, devoured up his soul.
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