Seven Years

Abchanchu sneers through the blackness

nature retreats from his sight

For he is the dark

the night

the not living

πŸŒ‘

With each solemn step

grass dies underfoot

murkiness left behind

no life

just the absence of all

πŸŒ‘

Even the moon hides

so not to be observed

The apparition consumes

all

that catches his gaze

πŸŒ‘

Once every seven years

he rises

once every seven years

stay hidden

to not be seen

17 Comments

  1. nijntje

    Even the bearer of bad news doesn’t enjoy the task …. i feel sorry for the Abchanchu. The know-er of all and provider of none! seems like such a cross to bear.

    Nice poem, Stuart! Thought provoking. πŸ˜€

    Liked by 1 person

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