The white banks have risen high.
The smoky powder fills the sky.
Blooms of consciousness are frozen still.
Consequences of dying on that hill.
Time slips, blurs, no longer stirs.
As thoughts dim, and pain confers.
Darkness consumes the glistening tomb.
Life gives in to the doom and gloom.
Nov 18, 2020
Nov 18, 2020 at 9:26 AM UTC
The white banks have risen high.
The smoky powder fills the sky.
Blooms of consciousness are frozen still.
Consequences of dying on that hill.
Time slips, blurs, no longer stirs.
As thoughts dim, and pain confers.
Darkness consumes the glistening tomb.
Life gives in to the doom and gloom.
