There are shadows where poetry cannot reach, and hidden doom behind the stars. The walking shadows I live with will pull me under in short-order, and not for the first time do I see this. And, even if they wouldn’t, I have only the intention to leave, for the night of nightingales has ended, and the night-watchman is banging on the door. I must rise and go with him through a strange, and wild-eyed kingdom; he shall be master of my soul.
There are Shadows Where Poetry Cannot
Updated: Apr 30, 2024
Comments