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Dews on wilted petals, ephemeral hopes which die
Wrap around frozen trees, as white, thorny briars;
In the miasmic air
In the moonlit square
A fountain, forgotten, does lament and cry
And dolefully expires.

Next to the dreadful, solitary park
A breeze blows forsaken, ominous and dark,
Consuming the night, and its prescient fires.

Two dead figures raised from below
Walk upon the graves, the hay and the wheat;
One wraith asks the other in the still of the snow:
"Does your heart still beat
To my heart's beating?" - "No."
And they passed as ghastly spouses,
Through grasses and reeds, yellow and dead
No longer intertwined,
Their forms were cloaked by mists - nebulous, unkind.
And the night alone heard the words they said.

John Lars Zwerenz

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content


Looking forward to reading more of your work!

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Dear John, I also welcome you to the site. Your poem is really dark, well written in style and content.
In my mind, I view dead people more kindly, at least my loved ones who have died and all good people. But that is just my opionion.
For some reason, your poem makes me think of Dracula! Perhaps these look like people in the daytime? Lol.
Best wishes and bring on more, Gracy

"My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies; fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die, I can fly, my friends.” – Freddie Mercury

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