So many poems
and stories
have gone unwritten
due to fear of not being good enough

There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un-hallowed and old.

There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sin's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule- altar fungous and white.

To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the sick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.

the words in my head
were buried too deep
for my poor mouth to dig up.
so,
for me,
it was easier to watch
as they ripped
my flesh,
begging for solace
through crimson tears.

in the city,
the stars burn with a lackluster glow
admiring us from above.
envious of the radiant beauty
you brazenly emanate.
-
and on the shore,
the tides rise closer to you,
their flawless turquoise
lifeless and dull
compared to the sapphire of your eyes.

Do you remember the days
Of honey and gold?
Where our song was still sung,
We swore to grow old.
In the arms or each other,
We fell back asleep
You promised to love me,
But my heart you still keep.