Blackness shrouds the empty floor,
While shadows dance upon the door,
A memoriam of forgotten flaw,
Heart beating fast with eternal plight.
The cold wind blows, a doghouse sigh,
Flying in the medley of nigh,
I listen to the raven cry,
Deadly victim, quite contrite.
I hear a knock upon the roof,
A possum lay under furry hoof,
Memory lingers, yet to sooth,
The Cold Lore whispers in the inky night.
The moon endures a pallour glow,
The rocking chair moves to and fro,
I think of the one that I love so,
I wait for dawn's first light.
Glitter stars and circumstance,
Law and right, in every dance,
The infected wound, yet to be lanced,
The apathy of the raven's flight.
Coldspire lingers a devil's scream,
The sunrise glows, the night's a dream,
I will never know what the twilight means,
Blood red Shepard's delight.
I sit upon a rocking chair,
As death, it takes me with gentle care,
I see my corpse, just sitting there,
6 hours since midnight.
At the end of every life,
Calls the raven, a herald of strife,
We step the edge of our own knife,
I see the demon firelight.
When the hour strike 13th chime,
And a child can drink the juice of lime,
When within a star exists a dime,
There shall be no night.
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Comments about this poem (Cold Lore by Stuart Logan )
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