These halls seem somewhat hollow
A certain sense of sorrow
Now graces ancient stone.
Replacing familiar faces
With defaced family paintings
And cold ancestral bones.
Thrones thrown upon a pyre.
Fate becomes the folly
Tomorrow the unknown,
The brows of time are furrowed
Past spent, lost, or borrowed
Flowers forever bloom alone.
Rats, the last lords of ruin
Rule cruel shadows from the walls.
Twilight sighs at daylight's rise
All seems dark till darkness falls.

I was supposed to write
So many more poems about you
But all I have left
Is the fading scent
You left on my jacket

andrew.
i fall to my knees at his feet with a heavy breath.
i almost feel unworthy.
this person, this man-
he's perfection in flesh and blood.
i feel blessed.
this angel, a saint with flaws, perfect flaws.
i nearly worship him.
godlike, i search his face for signs of light, anything celestial or close to it.
i find them faintly, small, unnoticeable to anyone who's wronged him.
he is perfect, and somehow, he is mine.

The Joker is deformed
By his father and his wife

Batman is also troubled
Which is why Dark is Knight

The most we can hope for
Is a little light

When she was still 16
My god what a sight!

It's neither right nor scorned,
It's finding your light to pour.