Upon That Hill...


Who's house might this be,
Placed atop this gray hill;
Drenched in shadows,
And spattered with drops
Of last eve's passing rain?

At rivers edge, rocks so cold
Shadow the gleam of dawn.
A mist covered sun must rise
Through clouds and time
To brighten this waking day.

Imagine the softness of dew
That sparkles under the cloak
Of this rising sun, like diamonds
Or opal shimmering softly
Upon this moldy empty house.

Creaks not heard, nor tempered moans,
Or howling winds in winters realm.
No sounds or smiles, this lonely morn,
Within darkened holes inside this house,
Passed by dreams and hope alike.




Poetry by Morpheus
Read 564 times
Written on 2006-11-30 at 16:55

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Kathy Lockhart
you have painted a moving picture of loneliness with your most eloquent pen. I feel I know this house personaly. I saw and felt it intensely.
2006-12-01