Cold. So very cold. Always always cold. Hands, toes, lips, whole body blue, hair white. Ice inside, frozen outside. Wanting warmth, always wanting warmth. Always reaching, never getting. Far. So far away. So very far away.
Frozen tears tinker on the ice ground. the wind blows a slo song through the air.
When all has come to end; I see,
the mocking bird has come to sing,
a song so soft of death; I hear,
as whispered shadows disappear.
The old one rises, the ground does shake,
as the fair one fades, her prince evades,
the wrath of anger and the feeling pride,
one does wonder why the wind does cry.
**
No comments:
Post a Comment