The Unforgiven Craft

by Ben

By candlelight,
and howling wind,
once more held aloft my weary pen.

For scant reward,
and bereft of love,
I weaved my craft again.

And painted visions,
of light and shade,
that stalk the land scape of the soul.

These rendered words,
of delicate folly,
soaked in tears of blackest coal.

No longer moved,
as my craft demands,
I ponder grander gestures.

Where silence met,
my hearts profusions,
nor heeded warnings of its bleeding.

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