somber god, a dismal fog surrounds him - his
aura a wisp bathed in grey with flecks of aether
just like his abode - home of the now timeless -
memories carved from broken vases of flesh,
spilled and often forgotten - a sea of echoes -
this murk is his solitary, confined by unseen
chains nailed in marrow, rusted by old blood,
look closely and you will see a paling river with
flecks of scarlet faces - he watches them
ripple, hears their cries, this pool of essence -
he is their master, yet he weeps for them, the
lost and found by, taken by, claimed by him in
the smoke he weaves - death’s cold miasma -
yet the chill is calming, no brimstone does he
spew, and his halls polished diamondlike with
care, for he ignores the cleaving ire on the
sunburnt surface - his kingdom is the bone,
the muscle, and the skin together - and he will
execute his forlorn task, keeper of our true selves,
this his burden - the grim stone angel of death.
About the Creator
D.A. Baldwin
I am currently a student at a university, trying to find my way in life, while also trying to write a book. Lots of ideas bouncing in my head for potential articles, so we'll see how that goes. Cheers!
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