Woes of the Dead
Their woes tell a story in the abyss,
Hollows reaching out in silence,
And crows screeching in the distance.
This place was filled with their sadness,
Anguishing inside of endless flat lands,
For their dying embrace was a bad remembrance.
It was here that ashes spread across,
Sticking to the ground like wet moss,
And their throats were parched from what they'd lost.
Their dying embers filled the land,
Trickling flames of lifeless hands,
And it was not a scorch within the sands.
Their cries would not move a hill,
Let alone a mountain,
For their quiet was deafening in this deadly fountain.
'Twas the result of their own killing,
Hands red from the blood of their spilling,
And that is why they'd received this fate most chilling.
Haunted are they now as each remembers a deed,
A vase from within themselves where they planted the seed,
But they couldn't outrun the reaper's greed.
"Lay here and receive the fate in death's grove,
Repent and pay with your suffering treasure trove,
For your sins are plenty and come in a drove."