The Passing Storm - Poetry
In the ways of the wild,
There seemed to be a dead end.
There was no hope,
None indeed.
They pushed through,
They had to.
For as treacherous as the journey was,
The hope of treasure held promise.
Death, a cruel peer,
Could never be more sly.
To evade capture,
To evade pursuit.
The sky darkened,
The days shortened.
Why do the horses keep galloping?
No one seems to know.
All they do is sigh,
Uncertain of the impending doom.
The torch lit the path,
For the storm was yet to come.
And come it shall,
For all things need to pass this way.