Jan Frackiewicz


The Grace Of Bygone Days

On these wistful wastes, under forlorn skies
my mist-clad memories were bound to go-and so!
The past would seem a torn and tattered tableau
When Crawling Chaos came to claim The Idiot's Price.

Over barren planes, burns a sulking sun.
Dim-lighted are the lands ever dark and dun.
On nighted hills there's always the sound
of baleful prayers and mad chantings unbound.

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