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Wednesday, September 12, 2012


In the moors of sorrow
Where dark things haunt
The mists slowly rise
And offer body to the moonbeams
The ever howling wind
Fractures the banshee cries
The stirring of the tree leaves
Offer echoes of yesterday.
Shadows of the past
Grow larger by the second
Threatening to eclipse
Any light of hope
Time is my master
Life is my slave
The art of keeping is lost
As the whispered charms forgotten.

© May 26, 2011 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

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