The Secret History
This eternal bliss in the twilight fair.
My mind still caught in the winter air.
Running wild was not the ideal,
And the aftermath was a terrible ordeal.
Blood and salt and the heavenly nectar
Flowed through our flawed sector.
This experience was an ethereal one,
And nothing could ever be as fun.
Though the antlers may be soaked in blood,
It was worth all the flesh and flood.
The celestial mirth runs through our veins,
And many more, worth all our pains.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
