The hooded figure waits
A hooded black robe to the ground
Standing looking without a sound
Whose turn is it in their final fall
Waiting potently for their last call
Do you see the signs in the sky written
Or a scripture that was at home driven
I walk towards the setting sun
And can’t fail to see a world undone
Do I slip wanting truth known
Or does it matter I hear you groan
Wake up the world before it’s late
Remember the hooded figure waits.
© Paul Warren Poetry
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