In midnight's grip, where shadows roam,
Beneath the sky’s endless dome,
I wander, lost in air so cold,
And find no peace where I behold.
The winds that sigh with hollow cry,
Speak of grief that will not die;
A raven’s call, a solemn sound,
Resonates within, all around.
The stars above, like silent eyes,
Gaze without warmth or soft replies,
For hearts that break, and minds that twist,
In this forsaken, endless mist.
Upon the stone, a name decayed,
A memory buried, yet unafraid,
Still, I walk through endless dark,
Seeking, though blind, a distant spark.
Yet through it all, the stillness grows,
And in its depths, my spirit knows,
For in this time, and in this space,
Only shadows will see my face.
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
Tim is an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. He writes about rural life, family, and the places he grew up around. His poetry and essays have appeared in Bloodroot and Coal Dust, his latest book.
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Violence Begets
"Any last words, cowboy?" "None you'd understand, sodbuster." "Funny. That's Marshall Sodbuster to you. But I meant some last nugget that would help us in the adjudication of the myriad offenses counted against you and your gang. I wasn't asking for penitence."
By Adam Diehl6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Tim! This is incredible! I'd put this up against any Robert Frost!