The Last Sentinel
I am a sentinel at watch awaiting an epiphany for he who comes on clouds holds seven stars in his right, the light of the night. As kitschy lingering days fold, nights unfold the untold will I not ware? definitely I'll tear as a thief he comes in the dark behold eyes will see Him, even those of those who scathed his ribs so will I on hold. Frigid whirly winds writhe deep far though through rough troughs of my curly wrinkles beneath the depth of withered facials born of the seed, purchased by the blood a millennium along with the lamb I amble. november (the black poet) ©2023
