As the moon argues with clouds <br /> In winter's tormented sky <br />A frail life lingers in the shadows <br />Waiting for deaths hello <br />To glide over the river of Styx <br />On the spirit of his funeral swan. <br />. <br />Through frosted windows, <br />A whispered orb appears <br />Hovering over mortal conscience <br />Mirrored in masked apparitions, <br />Around the candles flicker. <br /> <br />Voices fill the room <br />Calling the cemeteries dead <br />Calling witness to this passing <br />And In the Rocking chair a figure <br /> <br />Speaking, plumes of mist <br />Looking from a dark abyss <br />Where once there was a face, <br />The scratching of a Quill, <br />Writing, moving across a veil of grey, <br />Hiding the pages beneath <br /> <br />The quill of mankind <br />Is Here to empty your soul, <br />Though your heart will try and hide, <br />The truth, <br /> The person that is you. <br /> <br />For in his wisdom <br />Creation gave you a conscience <br />And that will always betray <br />This person that was you <br />And another testimony is taken <br />In the trial of Mankind<br /><br />Steven Cooke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-whom-it-may-concern-40/
