P H E L L

there are shadows
written on the land
like bloodstained
pursuits
like abandoned holy grounds
where sacred spirits dwell

where snow falls
the dead ash of ideals

there are stirring currents
flickering
brilliant like the hot want
of sunlight on a chilled day
and Moons swift in passage
through a month of pain

for all the lost
and all the found
the truths will
be

and all shall see