would

in the screaming breeze,
a whistles sound forms,
in the winds,
the hibernated scorn of hidden violins,
strung together the suspense.
In the aftermath of silenced stare;

the glare from colours crystalline,
the subtle manipulation of light beams,
in nice dreams,
across the shallow lake,
whilst opaque clouds fade, pale.
In the sound of the backgrounds snarl;

in the woods darkness, black,
the music chooses ehoes between branches,
dangling in tone in the malarkey of
the pain of the mandolins gaze;

each pieces together with tiny,
frost bitten childs sized fingers.
The icy touch lingers for the seconds of death,
that last a pastime,
a lifetime of lust,
in the blink of the dust in the wind.