The Coming -- The Muse Mongers Motel Poetry Archives

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Subject: The Coming

Author:
Sasha

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Date Posted: 22:09:57 01/14/08 Mon

The Coming

As shadow creeps across her moonlit form,
a shivering of autumn’s fevered breath.
Outside, the earth is bleeding in the storm,
awaits it now, the coming white of death.

Within the curving folds her voice is slick,
she swells in writhing peaks, as night falls long.
Of ebony, the tempest, humid, thick,
as fingers pry her open for her song.

To roll with thunder, autumn first must play
its part in seeing through, a promise made.
And call her lyric forth, from where she lay,
to feel the whisper rain, fall warm as shade.

The hands of time, paint now, in shades of white,
as autumn pours her last breath, to the night.

© Sasha ‘07

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