The Gathering Wind

Amongst the rhythm and rattle,
grasping thy hand, the icy silence instills this solemn gathering. What holds the blood from pouring over, an edge not defined by an end, but a beginning. The haunt of dreams entombed in memory, the language of the ancestors whispers under symbol and form. What we fail to hear, is winter is coming.

– Josh Fleming

Poem Inspired by the words of John Keats

Image By: Emmet Gowin

http://www.butdoesitfloat.com

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