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 DEAD   IS   THE   NIGHT


A putrid night
Driven by chilling air and lashed by rain
He came to a place where time bore all
And steps seemed untraced.
A time where man met his maker and
Survival was a primeval sense.

Black roses of death sat together in wreaths
Scant remorse for those men taken before
And others steeped in history's honour
Who had battled the howling demons
Venturing from a doom-ridden hole
Where faces peered in anguish.

Morning's sweetness pervaded
Cast iron bolts unlocked to a stealthy hand and
Ridicule was cast to its own plight.
Semblance dawned, and he was free
Of fury and fettered emotions and
Drank from the cup of peace.


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