Monday, April 07, 2014

A Poem Draft

Still very rough, and probably in need of a stanza or two more.


At night I called your name;
it flickered like a flame.
The burning spread,
swiftly red,
a battlefield on which the gods had bled.

As fury rose on high,
its glory touched bright sky;
it dimmed the stars
where angels are
with cast of shade and cinnabar.

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