Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jul 2013
When the gold burns low,
And the tongues lick no more,
The shadows come out to play.
They leap and twist, hover and fall.
They bloom and they wither;
They chase each other
Around the dying lights.
They refuse to die, the shadows of light.
Yet die they must,
Along with their snaking friends,
And at last they are born away
By the wispy hands of the wind.
Kate Deter
Written by
Kate Deter
252
   Kate Deter
Please log in to view and add comments on poems