A tune in the winter wind whistles and rings through
This old forest, humming even in the damp dark
Corners of the coldest cave, bushes shivering slightly
Violently in the air, still and weary eyes of the forest
Watching for signs of a storm, distant rolling rumbling waves
Of sound that drown the tune, scent of smoldering sandalwood
Made from that burning shrine, her garden grave and stricken
From the forest’s heart, silent drops make sadist beating
And drumming songs of pain, giving life to the dead
Memories that they may haunt this forest that grows
Old, set in its ways and keeps its secrets darker, still
So quiet, so mute, begins the morn dawning
Rays of light, warm the forest top, but below
In the misty shade, between giant tree cores
Covered in rough bark, the air remembers
The winter whistle tune.
Two days until the-one-that-got-away's birthday, so the emotional buildup allowed me to write something up. My natural style is rhyme-y; though I decided to use enjambement as my primary structure and threw in a bit of consonance for fun. Lack of strong emotions tends to be my writers block.