Seven Years

Abchanchu sneers through the blackness

nature retreats from his sight

For he is the dark

the night

the not living


With each solemn step

grass dies underfoot

murkiness left behind

no life

just the absence of all


Even the moon hides

so not to be observed

The apparition consumes


that catches his gaze


Once every seven years

he rises

once every seven years

stay hidden

to not be seen


  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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