the snow trickles like blood off a cut,
and the wind howls off the mountain tops.
a certain kind of cold strikes in the veins,
of the those who sit around waiting like an old rickety clock.
those who are astray just waiting for the day that someone will finally say,
words that would never decay.
they will be shot into our brains deep down while we lay,
down for some sleep on the cold snowy day.
a mystical lulaby whispering in our ear .
oh my dear its quite too much of a lovely tune,
for you to doze off so soon.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:27 AM UTC
the snow trickles like blood off a cut,
and the wind howls off the mountain tops.
a certain kind of cold strikes in the veins,
of the those who sit around waiting like an old rickety clock.
those who are astray just waiting for the day that someone will finally say,
words that would never decay.
they will be shot into our brains deep down while we lay,
down for some sleep on the cold snowy day.
a mystical lulaby whispering in our ear .
oh my dear its quite too much of a lovely tune,
for you to doze off so soon.