a poem written on the 7th of august

Rolling

In which direction does it stand
When descending imagery spin against me
Floating time
In a whirlwind of loss
Against me
When before my ears
They hear a crash
Such a life,
With hopeless cries.
To be freed!
Well why then,
In such a stage,
Does light float for my dwindling soul
Coming fourth to lay guilt upon that golden cloud
Where does it stand
When before me the sun shines black
And the night glistens in a picturesque bliss
Where does it stand
When night comes from the soul
And day from the hatred
Confusion strikes a deathly blow
And every day is a wandering day
When beings fallow the light and shining suffered cloud
Rolling through the misty relief
And the sun is lost in racing thoughts
And freedom gives it's last blissful touch