london

evergreen and glowing, the distance smitten with its gaze, vines held intertwined, with glitt’ring sparks beneath its haze- a rounded form of silver utters, sweetly, its nothings as a trace of blood, a gath’ring pool, obliged to its days. a sun-dipped lioness peers over its decaying life, a kiss, upon th’inscription of its golden acolytes. lay frozen, underneath the mound of graves of dying dead, filth covers its divinity, and covets its own light. uncharter’d now, the bleak grey cover’d neatly by the spring, silence betwixt the shoulders of the bark but for its stings. battered rounds of silver hang in the noose of heathered hay, and on that day, there is no mark of its slain tyrant kings.

by abigail alma