It started as a wall.
A phalanx of shadows marching across
the sky's dome.
The world in chiaroscuro as the shadows grow longer,
The shade grows blacker, and the light
is pressed into the horizon.
Winds picking, whipping, tossing, and pressing down
On the stragglers moving through the
thick, storm air.
A slap of rain, fat and cold, comes with
Of tidal-wave winds from the billowing storm clouds.
This is the world, I think, that hosted
And this is the world, I know, that
Lord Byron saw.
The black storm clouds, blooming like
ink blots and death's head
Across a wet and white paper sky.
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