Barren Wilderness

Through the undressed trees, the wind howls
a wild shriek of fury spent, but never quashed
A thin voice wavers, yet still it’s heard…
There’s nothing to be done, for I am lost

A wild shriek of fury spent, but never quashed
despite the vanquished, despite the insurgence
of boldness, the resolve towards supremacy

A thin voice wavers, yet still it’s heard
Above the roar that stains the dark lit sky
A noise in vain, the resonance of defiance

There’s nothing to be done, for I am lost
my will long spent amid the damage
my withered bones to lay forgotten

© All Rights Reserved A. F. Stewart

War Drums

Winds blow north, with the coming

In your bones you feel your fear

Through the mists drift the drumming

Forlorn eyes shed one more tear

Voices mournful, chant the dirge

for sons they lost, gone away

Flung too far, hope can’t emerge

when Death cast your dream astray

© All Rights Reserved A. F. Stewart

Periphery

At the edge of somewhere,

touching a golden sky, tinged

with cold, crimson teardrops

of a thousand misplaced souls.

Where a shrill, howling storm

echoes in your jumbled thoughts

and your toes grip the cliff’s rim

before you let go, and cascade

downward; falling, ever falling

into a waiting, unknown abyss.

© All Rights Reserved A. F. Stewart