Friday, November 24, 2006


The darkness opens its gates
the iron sounds its strain
inviting the wanderers in
its lure the waywards' fate

I grow accustomed to it
the long walks in the night
with no warmth or sight
save on the moon's light writ

A chill of absence grown
down streets and avenues
through bitter stiffened sinews
is to day and sun unshown

It stalks me in the pitch
and beckons with the tide
to height, th'always alone to hide
pauper from the wrath of rich

Shadow lies a shade 'mongst kin
soul lies likewise atrophied
skin from its colour freed
I, like the night, am cold within

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