Original Poetry Fan Fiction ❯ A teenagers book of depressing poems. ❯ Longevity ( Chapter 3 )

There is a valley dark and deep.
The way there is narrow and twisting;
you must carry a ball of red thread,
tied to the village gate, to wind past the dark pines

or you will never find your way back,
Put a bell on the wrist, of your wife, mother or sister
if the thread breaks,
the sound of the bell will lead you home.

The bells jingle in the wind,
The whispers of the villagers,
creeping through the cracks in the room,
as you hold the one you love,

His short brown hair,
covering his beautiful blue eyes.
The envy of the village,
Tien, the bastards child.

You weep silently,
as tomorrow is the day,
the day he will leave you,
and there is nothing you can say,

You tremble at the thought of loosing him,
but know there is no other way,
You shudder at the thought,
of your greedy masters, their greed for gold,

That had put you under their sway,
You are their lowly servant,
And you suffer at their cause,
You're going to lose your only son,

As the bell on your wrist, jingles soft,

It is morning now,
The night's celebration,
Withering past,
The sun shining brightly,

It is time, fates cruel cast,
this is it, as you kiss him softly goodbye,
You hide your shaking shoulders,
It is time for your farewell, as you hide,

As the bells on your wrist, jingles soft,

It is afternoon now,
as the cheers of the villagers greet your ears,
You hear the trampling feet,
Their greedy thoughts swirling past,

You see the absence of your son,
as you struggle to hide your tears,
You can't stop your weeping,
Your realized fears,

As the swat of her dreaded hand,
On your wet cheek,
You knew what you wanted to do now,
and it wasn't to weep.

You stifle your tears,
as you wait for them to leave,
And when the court is empty,
You tear of the dreaded rags you wear as clothes,

you trembled in the wind,
but not caring if anyone saw,
The noose hanging on the gate,
As you hanged yourself, your misery passed.

The bells on your hand,
jingled softly it did, the nights cool air,
sweeping on your dead skin,
the bells on your hand tinkling,

There is a valley dark and deep.
The way there is narrow and twisting;
you must carry a ball of red thread,
tied to the village gate, to wind past the dark pines

or you will never find your way back,
Put a bell on the wrist, of your wife, mother or sister
if the thread breaks,
the sound of the bell will lead you home.

At night, they take off the bells.
Something else finds their way to the village if they let the bells ring.
There is a bell, ringing now,
a sound that carries all the way up to the mountains.

It ends.

k.i.

Inspired by a beautiful story by a baka_neko, I hope you don't mind me posting this and i didn't mutilate your story that badly.