Author: Rick Ryckman
Where can I find shelter from the piercing storm?
In the wreckage of sorrow there is no escape.
The countless evils are done but will not vanish.
In the bitter cold my demons are not frozen.
The devil's blood paints the night crimson.
Like a hungry thief stealing the color of my soul.
The dark harbinger drinks from the golden elixir.
Comments on this poem/writing:
|Meridian (126.96.36.199) -- Friday, September 22 2006, 12:50 am|
I love the poem R.R.! A poem starting with H's. Harbinger, Hangman, and forgot the rest. You. You. Whew. Lost my breath. Deeply expressed! Love it scholar!
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