The Haunted Victorian

It’s one of those days you start the poem five times.
The words form upon the page, what you want to say,
And you don’t have the heart, or can’t find the rhymes,
You just want to sleep and write again on a new day.

A day when the haunted night crept into your life
And roses lie alive beneath the dead of it.
Living whole within the walls immortal strife,
But buried in the war mongering devils pit. 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: