An old clay faun eternally
Laughs from the center of the green,
Foretelling some ill end to be
Born of these moments too serene
That have led you and have led me,
Sad pilgrims of a glad demesne,
Even where the final moments flee,
Timed to the sounding tambourine.
Printed from: eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/182
Printed on: December 23, 2024