The morning chill seeps through skin
Ending light like caller's wren
Gravity inside us makes the world, despite us
Light of the evening is a false faced god
He mocks with jeers to devil's socks
They asked their way
None did reply
But reply with sentiment structure of fallen snow
The morning chill catches fast
In latter wanderings like laters past
A simple time long ago, left the the world without show
Ask him now if need do rise
When darkness hides to seep inside there he fall his vision blurry
What world has come to this?
Our hallow beats only bloody seep
Icy strands mountainous in shadow
Red on white by glassy gaze is what is left of his old age
YOU ARE READING
March of the Flowers
PoetryOne by one, we march. We march. Our branches tired. Our leaves are wearied. March of the Flowers is a collection of poetry
