A little pome i done wrote

[sspadowsky]

Gathering Darkness

no gust nor gale
will quell the scent
of death which roams
this blasted land

the heart shall pale
and soul be bent
upon the gloaming
now at hand

the desert speaks
in wicked tongues
of arid dust
and cutting sand

as midnight keeps
its starry young
afar from touch
of mortal man

hands put to flame
to stay the siege
of solitude
and frigid night

a stoic mask
but humble liege
in servitude
of greater might

dwindled yearning
heart's december
rev'ries burning
down to embers

a frozen, lonesome
allegory
tainted splendor
and ragged glory

hope's infernal
spring in tatters
swallowed whole
where darkness gathers