Of Things to Come

To what do my eyes see

When tey are closed?

A all to familar future woe

Of past and present fea

 

Where the raven flies nevermore

Where the pictures steal our age

Where the dead are all that live

Where man is lost to himself

 

Bones and skin does not a man make

But the sinful saint that dwells within

I see that saint standing there

For he is the source of this dream

 

Like a moth to the flame I walk to him

And stare into his taunting eyes

I ask him if this is my fate

But he does not reply

 

I wake in cold sweat

Like clockwork every time

The answers have not come to me

So I must wait for night to come again

 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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