January 5, 2012

  • 33

    Seed, swallow your probing tendrils,

    For your sun has set for night's rest.

    You yearn for warmth, for the height of the sky, but as always,

    night leaves you alone.

    Shirk back into the cold earth, that which you were born into,

    or seize the dark to thicken your roots, your heart

    that needs no sun.