Poetry

Final Breath

Is now the day for her eternal sleep?

Must fate find her quaking at the footsteps of her fears?

If only time would turn a favorable eye,

But alas, it is already too late!

In her bloody palms she holds scorched flowers,

And soothes the slain petals with her voice in vain.

The blind army marches toward her in perfect formation,

Yet none will live to weep for her wretched soul.

As she slowly closes her weary eyes

She feels the wrath of three thousand burning spears.

The sun shone gently with its pleasant rays,

And Mother Earth took her final breath

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