The days now are bitter
and they are short,
even the summer days
with the tethered Sun
have passed in the shadows
of my entombment like the
days of the winter solstice,
dying as they are born
of the feeble embers of the stricken Sun.
They hurry, across this teetering span
thrown over time
which is still what, in desperation,
is called a life,
crumbling in the lightless abyss
before them.
11.08.2020
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