On the Hill

sat atop a hill of my own creation
a pile of memories and refuse
the mountain of my own damnation
hands; moss covered from disuse

like trails of tears on ruddy flesh
crystals of salt divide the path
unpassable peaks enshrouded in mesh
lifeless bodies; an aftermath

peering down from the summit of my undoing
these eyes can finally see the truth
The air is thick with the storm thats brewing
the tangled whispers of wasted youth

a crown of twisted, rusted metal sits atop my head
dominion over my own land of crumpled, broken bone
trying hard to pull my subjects with a tattered thread
the people don't stray close to here for fear of being stoned

the sun still lights the terrain, horizon
weeping, I clear the way
desperately, making space to wizen
alas, lonely still I lay

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Compact Rhyme

The end rhymes vanish. a tribute to your excellence in word weave work. Read 3x and will reread another 3x - so much going on here. ~S~