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In the swirling zephyr, The grass dances weakly I heard an escort,– Awaits my way to the Wolf Hall. A triumphant sinister;— My broken pleasure,— How lovely to see thy scraps again.. Such a bounty hunter What the gods want now? Doth not turn me around!— Doth not hang me! If thou loose my ties,— Thou wilt be a murderer of all vines! Spare me!— I am not thy prey; I am not one of Greek's peccant, Please, off loathing my purity! This predator devoured me.. The ****** of his dark matter, stabbed me.. The mob held me captive,— by net traps The culprit lies next to me— Acted one alike raw; then I was sacked, I felt the bethel was mocked,— But my Lord won't despise me. A paralyzed arrest screeched me I was stroke— by a vermin quenched for meat.. Thou art the most cherished It is still me.. Scattered with mud, Dressed in a blanket; Hoping to kiss thee Bend for belief,— and not forgiveness Wherefor thy body shivers? Thy cup is condensing, Lips ill-looking; Red flames changing blue— Am I still the hue? I sensed— Thou fell into the pit My shreds, thy lust The roots art on the tip of thy nails! An ancestral plague poisoning whoever sits,— And bridesmaking is a promiscuous habit— To grasp a braided hair,— for an accessory Behold, the lineage of romantic paintings, Whence the bonds turn to heist Looting innocence and staying in history...
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May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 4:13 AM UTC
"Resurrection"– The **** of Thrones
In the swirling zephyr, The grass dances weakly I heard an escort,– Awaits my way to the Wolf Hall. A triumphant sinister;— My broken pleasure,— How lovely to see thy scraps again.. Such a bounty hunter What the gods want now? Doth not turn me around!— Doth not hang me! If thou loose my ties,— Thou wilt be a murderer of all vines! Spare me!— I am not thy prey; I am not one of Greek's peccant, Please, off loathing my purity! This predator devoured me.. The ****** of his dark matter, stabbed me.. The mob held me captive,— by net traps The culprit lies next to me— Acted one alike raw; then I was sacked, I felt the bethel was mocked,— But my Lord won't despise me. A paralyzed arrest screeched me I was stroke— by a vermin quenched for meat.. Thou art the most cherished It is still me.. Scattered with mud, Dressed in a blanket; Hoping to kiss thee Bend for belief,— and not forgiveness Wherefor thy body shivers? Thy cup is condensing, Lips ill-looking; Red flames changing blue— Am I still the hue? I sensed— Thou fell into the pit My shreds, thy lust The roots art on the tip of thy nails! An ancestral plague poisoning whoever sits,— And bridesmaking is a promiscuous habit— To grasp a braided hair,— for an accessory Behold, the lineage of romantic paintings, Whence the bonds turn to heist Looting innocence and staying in history...
In this 4th sequence, the queen met her former lover, but it turns out to be a nightmare rendezvous. He ***** her, for a reward, that she could be dethroned. He made it look like thaf she made love with him by making her unconscious, and after, some people saw it, and thought she committed adultery. Her husband was there when the people saw his wife and the man. Who would ever thought himself, the king, planned this, for he has another woman. The last stanza reveals the political and immoral ways of monarchy.
#plague#bridesmaking#roots#shreds#lust#murderer#bethel
fheyra
Written by
fheyra
19/F
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 4:13 AM UTC
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