The Race


The sun slides below the horizon,

Like silver over ice,

Burning across the sky on its descent,

Receding as you please.


Night crashes,

Winding the broken clock,

Swallowing the stars' light,

Hiding in the shadows and the smoke of their dying flames.


The moon falls to Earth,

Its light like oil on water,

Shattering a lightless sky,

And igniting a frozen world.


The mountains stand on the horizon, 

Like so many slates of solace,

The victors of this lonely world,

The winners in the dead man's race. 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741