Tis the season to be dying
Not too jolly are the lines I'm writing
The hymns mimic my weeping soul
A tune strung with a broken bow

Frail lullabies drenched in sorrow
Wilting with the fading greens
We inhale clouds of dusty air
Cold and fragile as my spine

Tingling numbness in my heart
Like frost bites from within
The finale of an orchestra
An epilogue of sorts

Wintry hails in my disturbed mind
Raining like misfired bullets
From a shoddy gun
Burning letters into my hands

The poetry I craft not pretty
Lacking tales of sugarcoated reality
Mostly **** and somewhat edgy
Infused with truth and too much realitys