Epic Poems

Echoes of a Sorrow

The night was still and dark,

Not a star in the sky did twinkle.

The manor was somber as the dead bark

That covered the crooked tree down the lane.

Not a light did shine in the windows,

That faced the front gate.

But if you dared to venture so,

To the back of the manor.

You’ll find a glimmer of light from a candle.

But do be careful you see.

There’s a man who lives alone and simple.

He doesn’t like company.

He prefers to stay alone because of his life.

The reason was because everyone he knew left him, even his dear wife.

She didn’t just get up and leave him one-day back then,

For she died from illness.

He loved her so, never did her wrong.

She had also done no wrong to him in exchange.

They met when she sang a little song,

Her voice had carried out in the wind during the moon festival.

Oh how lovely she was fifteen years back.

He knew that moment she was perfect and level.

Thought of everyone equal, never put herself up or made others seem tack.

Maybe this was what made him attracted to her.

So they wed after many weeks after their encounter.

They made the manor a lively home, not for themselves, but for others.

They adopted orphans here and there.

Wanted them to feel accepted and to have a future.

But soon the wife caught sick when they tried to conceive.

The doctors said that they must abort the pregnancy or she’ll die.

So they did what they did on Christmas Eve.

It was a somber holiday for all.

The man found new homes for the orphans knowing that they’ll be better,

If they are away from the problems of their sorrow.

One by one they left the manor.

Till only it was the man and his wife.

They both knew her end was coming for her wound had gotten infected.

Her last days on earth was slow and painful, till her breath was no more.

Now the home is empty, now it is a manor.

Big, empty, hollow it is.

The man lives in one room only.

He can’t stand going through the rest of the house.

For he can still hear the echoes of happier days.


Search for the Goddess
A man searches on
For a young goddess with a
'Gift that could save him

His soul is corrupt
And as time passes by him
It gets worse and worse

He is a book; rare
His life is but a play that
Shakespeare cannot write

"How many more days?"
"How long till I could find her?"
To save his own soul

His will is within
His heart and his life: fading
Like his sanity

His story is a
Book; that's rare, A play; timeless
"If only she's here."

All of the writing on this page is Copyright of blog owner.