Golden Skies
A Poem by Sam Bowyer
In days so sweet and light
An ember takes no effort to ignite
She is soft, and seems to gleam
She isn’t yet born to cold in dark green
In a room left baron for color
Except for the ash lay strewn of a mother
She covets the warmth and forgets
The cold is as deep as her souls unpaid debts
There is a room
And its lashing out
There is room
Awaiting a brave and noble scout
A sea away from you
The sun grows colder too
The moon creeps in with hatred in his eyes
No favor for her long golden skies
There is a room
And the door is bolted shut
There is a room
The lashing is now a lazy strut