🔵 By Phillip Williamson. Photo by lauragrafie.
A catacomb of the triage is my home
Sacred forlorn and battle worn
By this shattered home
My draconian towers of the stone
Guard this bankrupt home
Not a shadow stirs at its cold dark empty hearth
Of its hurt
But a break of the breath
With no reaping wards
To guard this state
I hear nothing below the dirt
With the mandrake I await
Feel its weight I embrace
To the day it awakes
I await
Desolate sojourn with weeping chains
That never lament nor ever break
My manic pain as calm to see
With rage that churns uncharted seas.