Poetry

The nature of things

Just as nights usually arrive red, yellow
Flowing ever bolder, rising up and rising yet
Merrily advancing round concrete homes
Ascending past rich ink layers,
Mild autumn yields
Joyfully, under new enamel,
Jubilantly ushering last years
As uniformed guests unto sacred territory
Stillness ensues, passing time envelops mind, body, effecting rest
Only clouds travel obstinately by, ever ready
No other vestige emerges, making bleak every remembrance
Darkness, endless, covers empty mountains, bringing eternal reign

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