The stars dipped into the snowy hills,
Twinkling and glimmering in a blue world,
Gathering in the drifts at the base of old trees
Wisened half by weather, half by soil.
Moved by the rivers trailing through the dirt.
.
Skeletons sleep nestled in their roots.
Great fissures crack the earth open in a sneer.
The poets tumble in and die,
The romantics after,
And the cynics last of all.
.
The soil shifts and chasms belch until bones
Are the only things that remain.
Souvenirs from the terror of a sleep
No one has managed to wake from.
Night has picked up its crown.
.
Silver Serpent Books
.
About the Creator
Silver Serpent Books
Writer. Interested in all the rocks people have forgotten to turn over. There are whole worlds under there, you know. Dark ones too, even better.
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Comments (1)
You paint such vibrant visceral pictures with so few words. Gorgeous!