gathers the dark and mist
demons race in droves

we wrangle quotidian ruminations
beneath a hornet’s nest

while a rush of wings draws closer
the prophetic voices cry:

“Mark, oh mark, the hour!”

Author: dorahak

The unearned splendor of being means we can always meet on a common plane of gratitude, aiming in conversation, art, or writing towards “something understood.”

6 thoughts on “Foreboding”

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