I am stone cold
And fittingly I require
Garments draped in gold
A coating, shielding attire
Of royal worth and empire
For minions to behold
When the right time comes
Necessity apts to do as deemed
I cover fragile eardrums
Take one last look, Medusa scheme
Salt pillar demising plights and screams
And suicide by Midas touch
This wheeling world keeps turning
As alien flora settles in
My life’s crop circle, burning
Engulfing flames of wealth and sin
Where burdens merely end to begin
Its tragic, milestone yearning
Categories:
apts, angst, confusion, life,
Form: Narrative