POEM TITLE
Cursed tomb of glory
POEM
Breathless sighs—
Heavy pounding heart.
Unwieldy urge to run away—
Was playing a crucial part.
Intoxicated faiths—
Larks on the tomb.
Dreams lied there buried—
Screaming for a moon.
Unsaid reality—
I better say distortion.
How much of it is yet to be known?
They check it by extortion.
She was tired of lying—
For being happy and stun.
The plans and plots she made for it—
No longer gave her fun.
Tears trembled down her cheek—
Pinching her fate.
She smiled with a numb Face,
Which made nobody wait.
Barefoot she walketh,
On glorious sandy beaches—
Blackness on sea is the place,
What to them oyster preaches.
She ran far away—
Looking for the end,
Jumping off the Scottish castle—
In a red hot burning vent.
All shine to her was blocked—
So was all the rain.
Scratches on her arms—
Showed nothing but her pain.
Dreadful fizzy hour—
For a glass made soul.
Match made in hell,
Couldn't see her getting old.
Ageing is a gesture—
To tell that she is cursed.
Just think of poisoned apple—
And this one's even worse.
Ain't no prince exist—
In this afflicted story.
Countless jostle for her mist—
She rose herself to glory.