The Coming Dark

The light was harsh, the coming dark still harsher,
Where hope dies cold and fear lies underground;
No target heart, no arrows and no archer —
No Cupid, just a frozen temple mound

From natives long ago: their unknown sorrows
Are buried somewhere, layered in the past:
One desolate today, and no tomorrows –
An empty, frozen waste
At lifelong last

Author: Owen Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

One thought on “The Coming Dark”

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