These short days in autumnal grief beyond
what the calendar declares are dim, bare
lands spreading from one short dusk
to another, the tides of night rising,
falling, rising on these windswept,
bleak shores of this late November
giving shape to the hours remaining
in the wasted, tormented light,
and our lives reduced to pale ghosts.
29.11.2024
Verse #Verse Poetry #Poetry Poems #Poems Poem #Poems
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