Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 2018
Master made a tax collector out of me,
Graced me with the scent of gold,
Fresh and stale and warm and cold.

The masses warned me for my fate to be
"The Forth Circle awaits, behold!"
In hushed whispers I was told.

But a poor, blind man now I cannot see
The price upon my head sold,
One more soul to collection old.
Feb 2015
Written by
Elicia Hurst
458
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems