Well Of Souls

01 Nov

Ancient Mayan relic
of once savage race,
this, the Well of Souls,
as it was then known,
now rests, eternal sleep,
amid wilding growth,
immortal wounds scar,
‘neath wrestling vines;
in the heart of Mexico,
‘ere only vain tourists
now view its infamy,
and those who know
its malevelont history
may still yet ponder
o’er this liquid grave;
but, brave, there it lies,
this void, abandoned,
still black water death
with infinite bottom
amid rock-hewn pit,
once carved by man,
but now left in ruins;
terrible zealot scurge
at once defiled them,
reduced now to echoes,
all souls of ages past,
no remorse, but recall.

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Posted by on November 1, 2016 in My Poetry



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