Doom
Doom. I smell it
A sensual feast
of vices. Wretches
subscribe their pride
to dark horses who ride in the
Gloom.
Doom, thy muse who takes pleasure
in dealing despair.
Orphans who lay in the ill sown seeds of
Ruin.
Doom. Now taste the sweet release of thine
enemies. Apple blossoms ripen to a poisonous
Bloom.
Doom. Hear sounds of chaos and tongue tied terror.
screams of the destruction Sweet Mercy will wreak upon her
Broom.
Doom.
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This is a poem from January. Thought I had posted it before...but nope. Hope you like it.
Copyright © A.E. Rivenbark | Year Posted 2014
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