Made using an image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay
I tell myself a story,
each time I wake from sleep,
an aching allegory
of sickness running deep.
I tell myself a tale,
in the fading of the day,
of symptoms making a jail
of me and acid rain that flays.
A tale I choose to tell,
but then in blessed stillness,
I hear the ringing of a bell
and see it is only illness.
Made using an image by Dieter_G from Pixabay
I read a mythic story,
a book bound in living skin;
a buzzard soars bathed in glory
mirrored in Loch Síleann.
In this ancient fable
a wanderer finds a trail,
swaddled in fur of sable
he passes through a vale,
where crimson Oak whisper
and leaves kiss mossy knolls,
crisp beneath his feet in fissures
a thousand sparks of soul.
The wanderers in an endless now
both buzzard and roughshod man,
surrender to the murmuring boughs
and the end that just began.
The pictures used in this post are cc license.
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If you would like to read some of my fiction published on hive, I have published 83 short stories on the blockchain catalogued in my Hive Book Store.
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