Christening the bleak of grey;
The paradox of dark and day,
Confined to single Moment’s blush
for longer light the earthly lust.
Is a time now, gone and past
Never to return to us--
but as a play wait in the next.
And so, until then there shall rest
within the shadow lurking there
until the close of Silver’s glare.
A briskness in the air shall be;
A sigh the ground itself shall heave
To welcome in the martyred sight
Of Sun’s rare gleam: contained contrite.
Hid in orange countenance,
The plague of guilt in present, is.
To down below a bashful peek
To witness Human purity
And watch it leave as soon as rises
we forget the dawn behind us.
About the Creator
Mae H.
I am an avid reader, a creative cook, and a hater of biography-writing. I'm here trying to get back to the one thing that has always been life-giving to me.
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