poetry

darkness, forsaken

Sunrise ignites the trees, gifting amber warmth to the chosen side, as long shadows creep away into the exile of winter’s disgrace, aye– reaching, dark fingers clawing across the earth’s circumference, aching to feel the sun’s love again. That hand once held– has been severed, and cast out.

Lonely darkness forsaken, the mad tyrant, misconceived, wishes only be forgiven its perceived misdeeds; the thieving vagabond, the whore, the cannibal, the devil thought blackened, hungers to know grace’s compassion, if only once more.


As I recall, I saw some shadows of winter’s trees one morning, and then this happened.

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Eric

I've come to write.

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