Ghostly Harvest
The night was fresh, yet old as time
The air was black, 'neath lunar shine
Winds cried, ignored by smokey clouds
As spirits walked, in mortal shrouds
On chosen nights they roam with breath
The paradox to peaceful death
They roam by group, they roam alone
They were the seeds, now harvest grown
Pax
A
10/22/09
If you knew who was walking alongside you every moment of every day, you would never fear or despair again.
It is beautiful to read your poetry again.
God bless and take care
Peter
Sheila
Ron
This has power in its quick punches, in its eerie otherworld ambience.
I like!
John
That gave me chills. No one does this better. Always, Paul.
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.