Gone With The Wind Poem by skillz thapoet

Here I was a son of the dead,

A breed of fate,

Castaway,

Born of hate,

Bred of the state,



Of pain I know,

To it I laugh,

Devoid of happy days,

A taxed smile,

Cursed to the miles,

A carriage of a soul torn,

A walk so long,

Soles too be worn,

I scream to the blazing sun,

Pray to the blistering earth,

To many two be apart,

Yet to this misery be parties,



Now the wind comes,

Screeching across the barren lands,

Pellets of sand she gun I with,

In death I still seek her dance,

To feel the merry of her crushing swirls,

As she devour this flesh,

And blow it to the gaping seas,

This blood that drip I beg,

To drain into the roaring streams,



Let them drink of pain that was,

And soak in a flesh drowned,

But these bones,

In silent moans hide,

Beneath the dunes that many you have,

For such be a tomb,

For we, sons of the dead