feeling the finer points of winters many truths
his ancient skin bruised by the many passing seasons
violence is his son
wasteland his daughter
church of the withering limb
apostle of the hurt soul
this poem is an open grave
this poem filled with my pain
and a thousand souls will rush forward
wanting to know this particular pain
wanting this scar on their own soul
the poem will speak to you in a voice so sweet
and you will want to know the world that spawned such
a lovely creature...one that could understand your particular pain
they will chase a vision of who you are to be to them
and your mind of dirt or dust will grind on
and your loneliness is not eased
your tears still sting like knives on your soul
i would give you all i have
all i have ever had
to just hold you in my arms
and be free to cry with you
cry with you