A Pawn's Muse

Poem By Ro'in Mao

Thy bitterness, again to me it calls
With naughty fingers and so sweet a voice,
In-soaking all my heart's unsavoury galls
And gets to me enthralled—far gone is choice.
This tired game which I am forced to play
Stirs up all pyromaniacs' hellish ire.
The world shall split and all shall fall away
'Til nothing's left alive within the fire.
Need I to no end warble ‘bout it slack
The wretched, bloody airs of wrathful fate,
Or shall I ride the tapered iron track
‘Cross Nihil river through oblivion's gate?
O come! Let's leave for good this rotten hole,
Your ghostly hand in mine, my heart your soul!

Comments about A Pawn's Muse

There is no comment submitted by members.

Rating Card

5,0 out of 5
1 total ratings

Other poems of MAO

Midnight Muse

With night-hued shadows dance the silver strips
Of lovely Mistress Moon's visage ashine.
The crickets sing the fairness of her lips,
Their strings lay praise in rows out line by line.

Black Cat

There once was a grunt so doubtlessly fair,
Black cats came out of his mouth with much flair.
They spread far and wide
On Earth's every side,


My darling babe,

Do not let the nightlings
Bug you again now,

Go On, O Ash

Go on, o ash—dye all thy grey,
And leave the naked wind to say
'Farewell', to sing low in the deep
A song of rest, or endless sleep.


Waiting… waiting…
People passing…
Odours wafting...
Fading… fading…