Colour cannot bring itsself to be here
Here, among the snowy trees
Which have become so old, and twisted
That even they no longer hold beauty
The branches drag, and whip
And pull you in by the heart
Then leave you, a broken toy
To wonder searching for the hopeless
It is so cold, and dark here
And ancient beyond measure
The snow is long trudged
But bears no footprint
As the branches bear no mark.
Even a melancholy wind
Or weeping gale, would instill more joy
In this wretched place
But instead, suffocating silence
Demanding impossible cries from the soul.
These trees yield to no blade
Or to the sands of time and decay
For the holder of the axe
Will find his own blood in the snow.
You could not bring yourself to take a path
Instead lying in the snow, hoping against hope
for escape which would not come
It only lead you here.
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 3:37 PM UTC
Colour cannot bring itsself to be here
Here, among the snowy trees
Which have become so old, and twisted
That even they no longer hold beauty
The branches drag, and whip
And pull you in by the heart
Then leave you, a broken toy
To wonder searching for the hopeless
It is so cold, and dark here
And ancient beyond measure
The snow is long trudged
But bears no footprint
As the branches bear no mark.
Even a melancholy wind
Or weeping gale, would instill more joy
In this wretched place
But instead, suffocating silence
Demanding impossible cries from the soul.
These trees yield to no blade
Or to the sands of time and decay
For the holder of the axe
Will find his own blood in the snow.
You could not bring yourself to take a path
Instead lying in the snow, hoping against hope
for escape which would not come
It only lead you here.