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