Monday, April 13, 2015


It comes, masked,
a quiet eddy,
hidden peril,
a hungry quicksand.
It comes, instant as demons,
intent on theft
and plunder.

It comes
relentless with intention
white horse chariot
drawn by moon.
It comes by night
by storm and wind,
it comes by day
in like-mannered kind.
It comes, a warhorse,
violent and black
in full charging.

It never departs
but red handed,
full handed,
leaves scars
in its scouring.

It takes its trophies
the instants of time
washed by tide
assailing the cliffs
with its burglary.

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