In the Stillness of Sorrow's Lent
The Stillness of Sorrow's Lent
By Tony DeLorger © 2013
Icy clawed fingers reach in desperation,
to a lonely brooding sky,
leafless jagged fingers, notched
and lifeless, shuddering in a thankless freeze.
In stillness, even a breath breaches time,
suffocating the razor air, stiff with resolve,
holding life at bay, on the brink,
where even sun dare not enter.
Sorrow marches through like an army,
carcases strewn, snow covered and crisp,
like sticks on the pristine white,
hapless lives snuffed out, thoughtless.
Trails of men lost to the howl,
of sorrow's lent, the silent treasonous bent
of harsh and decisive resolve,
life tucked away by force, in dormancy.
Such beauty lay at the feet of decimation,
life and death the cycle, in blatant clarity,
surrounded by a wonderland,
a forest dream in a wedding veil.
I ponder the gift of power,
unknown to a simple man, unconsidered by nature,
an all-consuming might of a will so sure,
in the stillness of sorrow's lent.
Death is simply an integral part of life, the endless cycle of change and regeneration. Like the seasons we adapt to change in order to survive, to ensue.
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