As the darkness descends,
We find,
Ourselves failing.
Always reminds
Of days ,
Long gone,
Of cataclysms,
Barely survived.
This tale of
Our doom
We never relinquished,
Yet this conte
Foretells the promises,
Of woes
Yet unseen.
These calamities
Always crush
And consume.
Fate begets
This dreadful dolor,
And laying to waste,
It also devastates
Our very senses
Allowing us,
Not to feel.

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I am a young poet who likes to write dark poetry. Please do read and please do give feedback.
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2 Comments on "Five"

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Milton Robertson

Very well put together. For dark poetry, it’s so brightly true.


My Five-five-fingers

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I My five-five-fingers of my hands Zestfully lived In serenity. The three thrill fingers of my right hand: Thumb, index finger and middle finger Stoutly lived civilly and gleefully Amongst her BROTHERS: They rested gleefully upon the placid, SHARP-SABLE-POINTED-DART. II

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