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by The Chronicler about a month ago in inspirational · updated about a month ago
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A Poem by The Chronicler

How often have I blackened

My steps,

In seas of ash.

When alabaster mountains

Offered me glowing fruit.

But their nourishment

Was only promised to

Those who climb.

And the ash was so readily

Able to be consumed.

So formless they formed

Into Plato's forms,

Their promises seductive and soft.

With white fists I seized them,

Bringing them to hungry lips.

But ash is ash.

Promises and pleasure,

Crumbled in my grasp.

And I am left to feed on

Bitterness, and smoke.

Through the sludge of

Tears and darkness,

That marks my countenance

For death,

I can still see alabaster mountains,


For my ascent.


About the author

The Chronicler

I write history.

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