In the Style of Robert Frost

In the Style of Robert Frost

We walk in silent shadow,
darkness that I well know.
Through the field of silent roses,
and swiftly emptiness does grow.

I’ve yet to see a bed of roses,
wither in their twisted poses,
crushed by the growth of walls
while the lazy worker dozes.

And like then hand of time it falls,
tumbling, when the North Wind calls,
whistling through the mountain range.
like a sleeping volcano it astutely sprawls.

And though the landscape may change,
with rain of stone and others strange,
I’m certain that the darkness will remain,
no matter how often we ourselves rearrange.