the Seventh Hour
the Pale King in a Fateful Chessgame
I step out
mist envelopes me clothes me
eats away my skin burns my eyes.
I scream
Wind answers
rushing past me
the Burst startles the doves
their Wings count the seconds
their fear-filled cries
crow the Seventh Hour.
I look
with acid-tinged eyes
towards the sky
the Sun
deciding the meager earth doesn't deserve her
has disappeared.
the Moon
a Pale King in a fateful chessgame
is too afraid
to move
beyond his row
of guardian starpawns.
I'm
Fumbling
Fuming
Failing
yet
Finding
Fear's bony brittle grasp
is easily
Broken.
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