Of Things to Come

To what do my eyes see

When tey are closed?

A all to familar future woe

Of past and present fea


Where the raven flies nevermore

Where the pictures steal our age

Where the dead are all that live

Where man is lost to himself


Bones and skin does not a man make

But the sinful saint that dwells within

I see that saint standing there

For he is the source of this dream


Like a moth to the flame I walk to him

And stare into his taunting eyes

I ask him if this is my fate

But he does not reply


I wake in cold sweat

Like clockwork every time

The answers have not come to me

So I must wait for night to come again

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741