slipping through the parchment
ink dripping in it's wake
scrawled, a bloody public statement
delivered as voices shake.
The timbre trembles saying names,
and most when he speaks his own-
as a child who played his games for two
upon learning he's alone.

he will walk in this midnight hour
a childbirth, discrete and veiled,
left to learn the fate for men as he
when all the world has failed.

Experience was his one true mark,
a mark now left to be forgot.
but here, the man shall slumber
as the memories of never were shall fade-

for, to be forgotten or erased
eyes must graze the victim-
and, thus not being the case
this forgotten memory
will always lie within.

01/10/2004

Author's Note: i wanted to write a rhyming poem that doesnt suck like most rhyme does. i dont know how well i did, though... meh.

Posted on 01/10/2004
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams