The lone poet walks
Along that dusty avenue
Lined with leafless trees
And cold stones of a lonesome hue.
Towards his deserted home
He walks on and on
On cold winter dusks-
The hours of a weak dying sun.
O' passers by! Stop
And behold his lonesome gait,
Maybe the lone remnants of
His cruel raging fate.
With the death of that weak Sun
His lonesome day ends.
Beneath those soils, warm,
A peaceful night he spends.
Nights pass o'er his grave
A handful of solace they bring,
Unkempt mementos; dark
And lost remains of a shrewd spring...
When Cold nights are warmer than day light;
ReplyDeleteNicely written.