Photo by Aurora Borealis
Full Circle
George Freek
Night encloses the pines,
and chokes the moonlight.
Nothingness stares at me,
and won’t pass from my sight.
I dump my pipe ash
into my empty cup of tea.
A star gives a sliver of light.
It’s not enough for me.
It’s the dead of winter.
Pines bend in the wind.
I can hear them groan.
The moon is like a razor,
made of sharpened stone.
A dog howls in the dark,
unable to find his bone.
If someone
would die tonight,
he would die alone.
George Freek
Night encloses the pines,
and chokes the moonlight.
Nothingness stares at me,
and won’t pass from my sight.
I dump my pipe ash
into my empty cup of tea.
A star gives a sliver of light.
It’s not enough for me.
It’s the dead of winter.
Pines bend in the wind.
I can hear them groan.
The moon is like a razor,
made of sharpened stone.
A dog howls in the dark,
unable to find his bone.
If someone
would die tonight,
he would die alone.