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The Storm

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The sky darkens, as if a great raven has opened it's wings over the horizon. Shades of grey, wisp off its edges, dancing and wreathing through the evening air.
The wind begins to cry a eerie song. As though lamenting for the heavens it is engulfing into its inky figure.
The purple and blue hues absorbed into its periphery, becoming mournfully darker blue.
Then the blackness, as if to be
standing under the reapers hood.
First the stars and then the moon become lost, devoured beneath his cloak. All illusions of the day are swallowed by its ravenous appetite.
A light rips through the darkness like a scythe, for a moment showing the remnants of past hours.
The winds increasingly vengeful song, broken by the thunder. As though to call out his arrival. Torrents fall from the sky.
Tears of those who's time has past, of those who have been weighed and measured.....
When the last drop falls, and his voice echoes off into the distance. His inky cloak escaping over the horizon, with his fearful scythe lighting his path.
With wonder, I look to the sky.
What do I see?
Wishing stars still falling from above.
And the moon as bright as can be.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: darkness

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4/13/2021 4:53:48 AM #