In these murmurous times

garish garments of candle flung on me,

concealing into the blackness of this light,

the quiet that has clouded these eyes,


 the voices hushed of stories of this journey,

the door bunged up of narration, by the fortitude

of now confounded moon, eclipsed to aloofness,


abandoning the dew drops on the yews

which stand enslaving ye, my soul,

growing distant from the being, identity,


I cloaked upon in these murmurous times,

balding my heads, ridding them of

dishevelled wild liberty of ye, my heart,


blood being caked onto the knuckles,

enduring the blue, of breathing

vicious fumes, out from within


Image Copyright- Erin Leary

Linked up with:

1. Friday Fictioneers

2. Imaginary Garden With Real Toads