Hugh Boone Posts
There is this harsh darkness revolving,
It’s eyes wrapped around me.
No good coming from the evil,
Night settling in for a kill.
Bastion of mourners cry for me,
As the stillness of sound beckons.
Follow the river that lies over the hill,
And it’s mouth be drowned in tears.
Wicked little boy stands on the bridge,
Casting stones on to passersby.
For the lightning that will strike him
Shall surely strike me with twice the hate.