The Mists

The mist lay around my limp, dead body,
The fog encircled the ancient abbey.
Evil perpetuated through thunder,
My soul being torn completely 'sunder.
And in the light the Sun will ever shine,
But in the fog, this the result of sin.
And the pugnacious monarchs, up and down,
Burnt my soul, burnt the steeple in the town.
The steeple lay completely in ruin,
Yet in the graveyard not a stone was strewn.
And the pugnacious monarchs, up and down,
Burnt my soul, burnt the steeple in the town.
Sending sighs of my soul to the high sky,
Sending sighs of my soul to fade, to die.
And I'm worthless to many, but not One,
He will lighten this fog, he'll have it done,
Carr'ing me up to the realm of the Sun.

Reviews

[Nusquam Esse]

Nice to see someone else who tends to stick to a pentameter, and attempts some form of rhyme. I liked this piece, especially your ending! I would personally change "the ancient abbey" to "that ancient abbey", seems somehow more natural, but that is just me.

[Mike Sieger]

Thanks so much!!!