Outside the gray dying world

Outside the world is gray
and dying

The clock tick
too slow

The moth won’t swallow
No more

Blackened air has deceased
The trying

For all who call home
They sell a soul

For pure, for tidings
They would perish
in good gold

So too, the earth would leap
In thanksgiving

For our day is
Buried cold in the
Lightened snow


In memory of the deceased, may they find their true home outside of this world.

Image courtesy: actsofbeauty.co.uk

About Michael Ogundele

A writer, ardent reader and lover of nature. fell in love with writing five years back and I've been engraved in her arms ever since. I share my little way of writing poetry and reflections based on Catholic faith and Spirituality on this space. I hope you enjoy reading as we ride the same chariot to the leafy greens. Do follow me and together, let us jump into the ocean of my ink.
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