Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Wanderer

far from your silver spire,

past the exile lands,

your pack lost to the river

deafened by things broken

and discarded

they cling to you,

a fist clenched,

doubt and sorrow stitched

upon your shoulders

another step,

another sliver

another poem like a footprint

behind you, your

ephemeral record

for the

end of days