Withered Flower
The light is gone like a withered
flower.
Shadows fade and bend like lions.
I am a withered rose on the back of
prose,
that does not mourn the darkness.
Take me, and take my baby,
and the light throws me outside of
myself,
shadows whisper on the end of all
things,
and night is calm again.
The baby cries, and wails, and the wind
sings;
the storm is coming, a tornado is
coming,
a wail wakes us up in the night.
We are ancient, we are kind, the
monsters cannot
sustain us.
Destiny bends. Nothing is forsaken as
the lost lamb;
shadows fade and control the light.
All is lost in the world, the rain will
fall,
and the beauty dips and swells.
Burdened by proof, I don't know
anything;
light will bend and all is lost.
The night withers and I go home.
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