There are no more sparrows
left in my mornings innocence
no more wind whistling sweet change
only stone shadows
bleed my moon wizened
even night is marred by my pain,
I\'m a victim from my own helotry
a warm feathered hinderance
imbued by a cryptic curio camarilla
wrapped in colossal tantrums
of glaciated acceptance,
my related revered raconteur
is my Heraclea and Asculum
the encumbered consanguinity
is my mucronate scourge.
I\'m a two faced shadow
in a four squared reflection.
May you drink in the star of I
to birth the gravity of you.
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WhisperingQuill.All Rights Reserved.
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