Sad And Solemn Queen
For some, growing old gracefully is not an option.
Of the mirror, mirror majesty,
Do not fear growing old and grey,
'Tis but life's little tragedy.
Your Autumn years are growing near,
Your peacock eyes don't shine so bright,
A sadness darkens them with tears,
Forever gloomed in twilight.
The songbirds sing their forlorn song,
From the shadows of the willow tree,
You dress in black for the love you mourne,
And nothing seems to comfort thee.
Through waters cold and deep you wade,
Amid the mists of Gothic gloom,
You reach out for the razor blade,
And life's blood seeps away from you.
The skull of Death looks down upon,
You somberly floating in the pool,
With a silent hush, your life is done,
As his skeletal arms embrace you.
Beneath the moon the reaper fades,
To release your soul to the wind,
As the crows ascend upon your grave,
A glimpse is all you have of him.
You're destined forever more to roam,
Among the Gothic gravestones,
To the morbid wail of the fiddler's tune,
As the wind rattles through your bones.
Take refuge in your mausoleum,
In the cold darkness of Death's womb,
Oh so sad and solemn Queen,
Growing old was never meant for you.
Post Comment
