A Mote

By all, of them are lost
in this defining frost
By all, array, the slave
lay down to take the grave
A sense, to keep, the sleep
changes hearts to masonry weep
While each day, by bed, the prey
is lost by concrete cave
Considers, of homes, in blizzard
a lost sheep to hear the quiver
And breeds, in time, to hope
the silence is but a mote.
NeverKnew NeverKnew
13-15, F
Jul 11, 2010