dark is the night, ᴍᴀʀᴋ ʙᴇʀɴᴇꜱ, 00.27
oh, what gloomy intervals.
don't you see this lonely night?
the earth is dark, the sky is white,
the doves no longer fly far.
strewn amongst the corridors;
the angels are on the violins,
yet they all think like devils.
oh, what a melancholy night,
bathed in this holy silver light.
chessboard mastermind,
seek, and you shall find,
where the wind chimes like twinkling stars,
nonsensical, so utterly whimsical.
YOU ARE READING
[14] - monday's child.
Poetry𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯, 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘴. original poetry i wrote at fourteen.