She Paces with Wicked Steps

Every now, into then,
Eats at Winter soul slept
For bread, of Love’s mourn,
Bereft those who’ll drown.

Through an evening’s prayer,
Flows down, somber gray stone,
One weak pitch, of voice,
Of yours, that peeled choice.

Cruel, has your mind become.
And with our loving eyes,
Hurling bright, dismal honey.
No taint high from God’s own life.

No pain could ever etch,
On Shame’s phantom born skin,
Yet, names are those gray words,
With thorns above your eyes.

The simple cloud above,
One giving, meager soul,
Is false, by blackened hands,
That none shall ever long.

Cliff with broadened deep,
Looms as silver tears,
You’ll see over lips,
As grief’s savior hears.

Come quench my maddened thirst,
As all my saddened verse.

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