Twilit fields, whole with loam, so often wrought upon,
Hath not such a purgatory, meant for recourse
But solely for expedience, purge naught
Of this; dusk settles ever so
Usher of clouds, in skies so crepuscular
Reflecteth so dearly, what light hath repose
Shining unto death, unto eternity
So brilliant doth it stay; so brilliant, unto death
Grim weights hangeth upon the fibril of life;
Impending pendulums, hanging through time;
Ever so dearly looming of severance
Doth these feeble threads stretch
Yet doth hold firm, unto death
Life hath no insight akin to death, nor hath it tranquility
Nor peace, nor solitude;
Solely what doth exist, precludes not the rise of despair,
Only hath it a solitary facet
Not wrenched of congenial being,
For, life hath expedience
Everlasting, unto death
Submitted: November 21, 2018
© Copyright 2023 Jonathan Augustine. All rights reserved.
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