Shadows Poem by John Lars Zwerenz

Shadows



SHADOWS

Tombstones cold, rolling white,
To demonic eyes, in the wild moonlight,
Release their fog beneath cryptic boughs;
This is your hour, Judas! -
This is the hour - Of shadows!
Alas! -
Where can be seen,
Among dead branches, leafless and serene,
The light of redemption
In this sullen, unclean,
Boggy throng of moldy meads.
For this bone yard is devoid of any fruition -
Save for the pricks of sallow, frozen reeds
Which wrap their claws around the flesh
Conquered by the worm which reigns.
(When graves are fine to their taste - and fresh!)
In their shallow caves where the stained woods bleed
Will you share in their immortal pains -
You who gazes here, smiling as you read?

John Lars Zwerenz

Sunday, September 14, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: demons
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John Lars Zwerenz

John Lars Zwerenz

NEW YORK CITY, U.S.A.
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