Daybreak Weaver

The morning light,
The bursting light,
The golden-yellow,
Seeking, trailing
Morning light,
Stretches shadows
Across flatlands,
Lights upon
Stunted, straining
Lonely trees,
Cloaked figures,
Blackened leaves
And darkened wood,
And stretches their shadows
Across the flatlands,
Paints the sky red,
Paints it orange
Paints it like
A fruit of light had
Burst and mixed
With the sky’s blood
And illuminates
The dwarfish trees,
Stretching shadows
Across the flatland.


I can see it in their empty eyes,
Reflecting like desolate streets
Devoid of the hum and hustle
And echoing with the silence,
The murky hollowness
Of souls drained.

Ghostly cities of minds
Where the presence of thoughts
No longer drift and mingle.
Where cold winds sweep,
Knocking at the cracked panes
Of broken windows.

Where words and joy fall
Into an endless abyss
To drown in deep darkness.
And I help but ask
Who it was
That stole their hope away.


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