One Hundred

The footsteps fall upon the dead red leaves,
As the sun journeys unseen by the eye.
The grey clouds rain down and mix as they breathe,
Floating and away with the winds they fly.
As the winds swirl no time of day is known,
Which hourly God sits up on his throne?
As the darkness seeps in forging blindness,
Is it to block the world’s ills from the eye,
In a sacrificial human kindness,
Or for the season to readily lie?

© PersephoneM 27th October 2011

Trying out something a bit different with this one, structure!


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