It drips drips drips
off the marble
from his lips.
The sand falls, in grains
Fate's long scrawl,
into the bottom - through
his fingers - of the eternal bowl.
When the sky capsized,
it set striated bones to swing
in the breeze. Caused his fall
through the leafless branches;
lightning blackening the trees.
In the ichor webs of ebon
lacing wood, skin and rune -
he became blind to the sun
and ignorant of the moon.
In the terrible darkness
his silence babbles loudly
as the steady stream of sand
fills the crucible rashly,
it drips drips drips
off the marble
from his lips
YOU ARE READING
A New Chapter
PoetryPoetry after the change. A new vision of disaster and spirit. Less optimistic and more.
