Mountains cloaked in misty fog,
Far too invested in holding up the sky,
To crumble.

Light burns the frigid frost,
As the pale moon begins to fade.
Lonely is the moss that witnesses,
These vaulted measures of pain
Through suffering.

How many pebbles,
Make a mountain strong?
Or do the people ever realize,
Their propensity?

Failure is a game,
Each person will play
And despair is the summer grass
In which we lay.

For there is no retracting,
The violent light,
As hope burns screaming
Through a lonely night.

Awakening from centuries of sleep, trapped in a dream with open eyes.

A witness to the horror bore of hateful minds, safely a once beautifully free soul is now held inside.

Waves of true intention seem to bubble at the surface, fighting to escape the hand of absolute control.

Hard is the battle against that which cannot be seen, while forced to follow the rules of a role.

Where the dark dissension breaks the rulers at their core, bright souls begin to wake to view the desolate land.

Once a broken, shattered and divided people, now find the common love for which together they will band.

Never was there ways to stop this wave from crashing on existential shores, never could they stop an open heart from wanting more.

See the candle's wick endure the flame, much like the shoulders that bare the strain.

Lost in a darkness we never sought, learned to wage a war we never fought.

Consciousness locked inside our fleeting dreams, held deeply within ancient genetic streams.

Continued life is water over flowing, hoping to find a path of deeper knowing.

The lip does bleed while on the hook, late is the bait for which we didn't look.

Snow drifts over the hills as if sand, differing by merely altered warmth inside a hand.  

Icy frozen windows dripping away, not cold enough yet to last the day.

Snowmen melt like ice cream cones, just like the chunks of slush slide off of homes.  

Precious water slowly trickles down drying streets, while the fog of sublimation makes a cycle complete.