The sun goes down
Bleeding into the sky,
Carnelian turning black
As its blood runs dry.
A thousand fettered souls
Mourn the last light,
Among the taunting stars,
Their thousand dreams flicker and die.
But I don't quake,
Nor do I cry;
Because I know that the sun
Will once again rise.
Metamorphosis.
The balance of sides.
And when the darkness cracks,
A new path will light:
One that will shepherd us
Out of the oblivion of night.
YOU ARE READING
Random Spurts Of Poetry (#Wattys2016)
PoetryWhen you can't paint with colours, Paint with words; When you can paint with words, Do you really need the colours? Achievements: #11 in Poetry (23/9/26) #13 in Poetry (22/9/16) #14 in Poetry (28/7/16)
