Mystic

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.)