The Sting

A short poem

Where is thy mark of yore?
Hath thou not felt the sting
of venomous fate?
Where breath doth break
and hearts doth ache,
Nor crime shall be tried
with malice or hate,
For no crime of passion will take,
so willing denied our heavenly state,
When mountains are moved
thy emotions to faked,
Let pious action forsake
To bleed thy dry for past mistake,
Where thy mark of yore
dies in fateless wake.

Author's Note

Not much to be said about this one. Just a quick poem to wet your palatte.