Standing weak on the shore of life with morbid breath.
Pale, a winter harvest of dread and a bounty of regret.
Standing stolidly, throwing my dread, throwing my regret, deep into the ocean of oblivion.
But, I kept my morbid breath, my harbinger of doom.
For whomever finds the darkness will eventually seek the light.
(Copyright @ 2020 D. M. Pearson. Do not reproduce without permission of the author.)