Crepuscular clouds

And a dawn mist,

Rendered into one, the promise of morning

Against the timeless, ancient values of night,

Eclipsed by the brutal reality of day,

Seen in the sky like distant stars,

Orbiting but separate and never the twain shall meet,

Save for when they do,

For all those times a baby’s cry sounds to ring in

His mother’s last breath,

Or he, stillborn, does not speak at all,

Destined to be silenced in the cosmic noir,

Mute, but not forgotten,

Or when, at our final appointment in Samara,

We hazard to ask,

“O Glorious Death, what is next?”


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A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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