Skeletal trees loom Like old fathers, emaciated. The dead walk the streets, And wind pierces flesh.
There is no snow; The sky could buckle From the weight of the clouds, Smothering you with their Stark white, dense light.
A shuffling row have eyes like lead, And their skin is grey and beaten. Their presence is a weight. Rows and rows, like sardines Packed without air.
Shrug it off. They'll dissolve soon enough. They'll be washed away By the coursing river of time. Why act when you'll have forgotten By next week? The sun will rise Tomorrow, why interrupt or Stamp your foot in the stream?
Avert your nervous eyes, Cling onto something without consequence. Swallow orders like pills, Let them envelop you, Until your mind is a vessel And the images presented to you Are the host.