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Oct 2017 · 268
Dark I fear thou
Sam Warnickel Oct 2017
There stood a barren outpost,
above lichen-borne, slimy rock.
A beacon, of the oncoming darkness,
that greets every life ere the ebon night,
wreathing, dancing around every flickering flame.
Yet the demise of the golden, glaring light,
brings white rays o'er my head,
an illumination, revealing my weary surroundings.
O twinkling stars, mother moon,
indeed am I indebted to thine peace,
to experience such fear, yet behold such beauty,
pensive, but great and mighty.
Blessed am I indeed, by thou creator,
and mine too now.
Oct 2017 · 320
Changing Time
Sam Warnickel Oct 2017
O the orange tinge, of the clusters,
that lie fallen in the brevity of time,
snatched of their beauty.

Rise will they again?
Or does an ague pursue them,
will they not display their true colors?
Or lie sunken in the wilting grass.

Autumn! Autumn, you have come indeed.
The fall and rise, is spun by the webs of time,
they will come hence, and go nether,
to the pits of darkness, and lay threadbare,
when they will to appear.
How can humanity gouge its hidden veils, shrouded?
Sam Warnickel Oct 2017
What ruminations do the incandescent, ivy-clad trees,
whisper to the wuthering winds from the farthest shores?
Do not, the neighing leaves, fluttering, and dancing with the breeze,
mingle amongst the gusts fair, as reunited friends, at a carnival fair?
Or perhaps, their hushed whispers, trace the ramblings of the drooping dwellers,
who were so daring as to build upon nature's perennial, the scion, that now laughs with the ebon wind,
and shakes the speckled, many-hued clothes-line, from high boughs and brambles;
And, bringing the potted earth, falling to meet its ancestral home, exposing that wary person,
who could not, shrouding behind the mantelpiece,
look out and see afar, and realize both matters of the truth and black lies spun on fragile threads.
But, why should he? Did he want to see with the malice, that the wind shimmered,
spreading its enchantment through the brambles of that old spire, crooked in heart and hand?
Or, would he rise to the order of the protectorate, a guardian of his homely abode?
But, it shall never be the latter, for as this tale is spun, that perennial is long gone,
gnawed of soul and life, standing, a father of an older age, beneath the skies dim.

— The End —