The Staircase
By eske
The Staircase
On the May of cold;
the air heralds rain.
From the rain rose a man.
Born from the water,
arose in
the mist of July.
The sun shone through.
The leafs green
covered in white.
Engulfed in the white light.
As the
elements burned the outlines,
the cloud called dream did cry.
Fell upon a winding staircase that grew down.
Here, the
truth lay under the carpet of black.
Blackness engulfed the truth,
wonder why it lay.
Why must the truth sleep in the dark?
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Copyright 2010 eske
Published on Thursday, May 13, 2010.
Filed under:
"Poetry"