The Ruins
By edenbak
His shadow falls on the pocked stone, flooding its cracks with sudden humility. Standing where thousands have lived and died, hearing nothing but ambience. The hollow feeling in his throat, the eerie feeling in his gums, are reminders that he is not alone here. History is whispering like a deceased relative, It laments the future.I'm not completely happy with this one. I may revise it in the future. Let me know what you think..... Written March 14th, 2002 © on Mar 17 2002 06:50 AM PST 0 • 12 • 10
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"His shadow falls on the pocked stone,..."