• sarthak_monte 16w

    It

    Later the latish night
    Afore the early dawn
    Shimmered the pallid moonlight
    Whilst his terrible fate was drawn.

    Shivered he in his most ferocious fright
    Divulging from its grave, 'it' was born
    Dimmed was his weary sight
    On another blink it was gone
    Whilst he was struck in his plight
    It's eyes, on his, held it's gaze upon.

    Unfeasible it was, to cease that wight
    Unable he was, to stand such brawn
    Enough it was to spite, this misery, he had to wear upon
    Incapable he was, to match it's demented might
    Killed he was, killed, living within his own mourn.

    ┬ęsarthak_monte