The eve

The clocks Cry havoc. Midnight screams the hour. Blow horns Beat pans, run folly-blind. Bellow. Screech. And be like bedlam Ricocheting through the halls And out the door Where there's a path somewhere to find. 'Should auld acquaintance be forgot And never come to mind . . . ' The path is there, the waymarks stare, The writing in the sky is fair, But left unsigned.

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...

Save for later

Save
Cancel

Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items

OK