This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

Not the sun in fierce, beating beauty;
Not the cloud with shining essence,
Laced from within with the
Souls of the stars;
Not the deep heavens of azure and indigo,
Nor the silver jewels of the raining skies,
Nor the bend of prismed angel wings over the mother's curve.

I am the shadow of the cloud,
Rushing, sliding phantom of darkness
On the earth's face;
The shiver of bleakness
And the veil betwixt men and goddesses.

Far away, the finery of deities
Is held away from view
By the gloom of my wandering tread
And the sorrow of my presence.

Men look up to see their sun
And bless me for sweet relief in unforgiving light
As I embrace their fears and anger
As they hide beneath the clouds in my fleeting arms.

But curse me, they do,
When they feel the chill,
And they wish me away
As they turn their renewed bodies to
Burn beneath the solar splendour.

I am forgotten.

A hidden breeze of the under-world;
A story never remembered;
A whisper of a shade that
Skitters over the skin
To be shrugged off before winter fires banish the cold.

I am sadness.

A momentary phase in a scudding day;
A waft of stale incense on ancient robes;
A smear of mud on snow-white silk;
A missed kiss askew from half-hearted lips.

I am alone.

This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.