Violent equinoctial gales
Blew through barren wastelands.
Long talons of an ageless clock
Chimes echoes through silent graves.
Rain battered on the window
of a death stricken home.
The heartless icy winds pass through its halls
But not a soul hears its lonesome cries
For the dead does not feel;
they do not ponder; they do not sense time
Beneath the dark earth they find their repose
From the darker earth whence they came.
YOU ARE READING
The Workings of My Inner Demons
شِعرAn assortment of thoughts that pops into my head worth sharing. A creation not only for an audience but also for myself. It may serve as a reflection in which people can evaluate themselves and eventually morph into better persons. It's also not bou...
