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The sun setting paints the clouds a molten gold,
To the west is fire and to the east its gray and cold,
A shard of me understands it's always been thus, a rift as ruthless as it is old,
Yet to find the bridge and cross to truth is something most will never know,
A shine, a darkness, a shadow alone.
The question is soft as a feather and the reality a grim, red stone.
Sometimes I look in a mirror and reap what you've sown,
As much as I love this I hate you so.
To the west is fire and to the east its gray and cold,
A shard of me understands it's always been thus, a rift as ruthless as it is old,
Yet to find the bridge and cross to truth is something most will never know,
A shine, a darkness, a shadow alone.
The question is soft as a feather and the reality a grim, red stone.
Sometimes I look in a mirror and reap what you've sown,
As much as I love this I hate you so.
Category Poetry / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 120 x 79px
File Size 677 B
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