The Weeping Time

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What the night holds.

Oh, to survive the night,

only numb, weary to struggle against the last light.

 

So lost tween knowing and sowing,

a wink before fractured visions be blowing.

 

No sense or tense, when images do call,

to walk bare if you dare, unable to fall.

 

To soar and adore, maybe now or then,

on wind we walk, on dead legs in the fen.

 

Woe are the hours falling by one grain,

bitter are the ticks, seemingly insane.

 

Lore or gore, no way to say 

dead is the voice still far from the day.

 

Be hopeful, the black time make haste,

the end of the maze, the end of the chase.

 

At first light know the weeping time,

as demons and gray fade with the chime. 

 

 

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