Here is the pit

Where the bodies are stacked

From the endless battles

Son’s and daughters sent to the earth

No savior, no redeemer

Only the grasp of the earth

Shrouds follow the confused

Prey unaware to their fates

Walking to an unknown

That they never will see

In the summer, all those lies told take flight in the gleaming sky, soaring like dreams of better innocence

But when the winter comes, those lies roost in the trees, and the eyes see them

In that harsh chill, does the still honesty bring back those lies, and the truth roosts right next to your window

The pain of losing, is never something you can adjust to
It’s always a knife into the veins, tiring your senses, bleeding your tears
It is only when you learn of the trials, do you know that it is natural, and sadly inevitable
But we must remain steady, for life does not stop in the blizzard for us
We must follow it’s footsteps
Or be lost

When the wind brushes against the windows, the sunlight halo settles on the green grass below it
There your voice will be, as subtle as the rain that falls in the evening grey, so calm and timid on the blades of the small churches
And when the wind goes away, the crunching of the dead leaves will be your steps, as you walk eternally through your wooded kingdom
You have become the princess of the forest, you have become the spirit of the animals, the protector of the trees
The flowers bloom as your eyes, the petals the color of your smile, the stem your arm reaching to hold me close
You have become the infinite universe, you have become the stream of life, that river which flows through all of our mortal bodies
Never will I see the sadness upon your face, for you will always be in the majesty of the pines, the grace of the weeping willows
The fox will be your words, the orange of it’s tail the hums you will sing all along through those woods
And when I find myself in the tendrils of darkness, weeping hollow tears into the palms of my hand
You will be the moon, shining on the crowns of the trees, singing me a midnight song in the silent solace

cigarettes were made for the poets

Alcohol made for the writers

Drugs made for the actors

*** made for the painters

Vices all created

To the self appointed one’s

Of art’s vast wasteland

Time is cold, it is passive
It leaves scars on the glass
And erosion on the nail