On this moonless night
I sit among the crickets
Shrouded in music
Oh! look how beautifully she uses her smile
as a shroud,
to hide the gruesome scars her soul endows!
Oh my, you really could not see,
That I was gloomy.
Just as the grey clouds,
Outside the window - the sun's shrouds.
You were more curious about the drops
On the windscreens,
Instead of those
That were rolling down my cheeks.
Okay this is a twisted and exaggerated version of the exact feeling.
Also, I was really bored.
It sure is such a rarity
To have any kind of clarity
In this pall we’re covered with - no verity
Grey is not lit with any prosperity
Only shroud covered lands all in a form of familiarity
Knowing what is covered, but cannot see it’s true identity
Shadows cast through the day of skies so cloudy
A wet mist reminds - there is no remedy
Sunshine does not peek or wink through an atmosphere so gloomy
Dark grey grows over the land walked by one in singularity
Unfortunately, having clarity is such a rarity, a sad insincerity..
When the day is gloomy, depressed, and/or down feeling. When you feel that the world about you is so far away from any of your senses....
Tucked between bark and the life blood of trees
Shrouded in shadows and leaves
Deep at the core of the heartstrings of woods
From magic and elmwood conceived
Living in silence but also in wood
Falling for none but the axe
Standing in stillness, her shroud is a cage
Her only consolements are tracks
She watches and wishes as travelers come
Hoping that one will commit
To chopping her life giving elm cage away
And helping her learn to forget
A man did just that in the forest one day
He swung and his axe whistled through
She fell to the ground and she tried to get up
But her elm cage had trapped her there too
It'll creep into your mind
sits in the back and festers
until you acknowledge it
and it makes you sick
having plagued humanity for centuries
It doesn't matter you're happy
a miserable wretch
or a beloved spouse
The dark has no preference
the shadow consumes you sooner than you think
gently swaddled in the shroud of time
something only man knows and keeps
until the end.
I'm beginning to see swirling clouds
Form in my mind
All the thoughts held back
Away from the glares of their eyes
Away from their words filled with lies
I cannot bring myself to stand up...
And I don't know why?
Is it the innocent hurt?
Or the lack of strength left in me to vie
For a warmth that is left unfound
As I shroud myself away from their deceitful reprise
And as the shroud I've covered myself with
Becomes colder, to my demise
I've lost my voice
Between all the screams and cries
That are left unheard
Why is the color of death black?
The color of night
of inside a cave
of your mother’s womb
of behind your eyelids.
The color of no color.
For some, it’s white–
of crumbling columns of ash
of salted soil where nothing grows
of days when the sun shines
too bright to see
when you look out your window and
can’t see your mailbox
when you leave home and
drive through clouds of snow
blowing across the highway
of snow dusting the air from
the backs of semis
of ice buried under snow
and you see the fields and trees,
the world shrouded in white
and wonder if
you’ll be buried here too.
slowly the fog creeps
in our township's sleeping streets
dense is its heavy shroud
we cannot condone those
who trash a writing zone
they waltz in and litter the abode
as if it's theirs alone
well excuse us for not liking
the bad state of our cone
before they turned up everything
had a tidiness in tone
the ******* has no sense
of where it should hang out
it just delights in strewing
its self liberally about
we're all wishing that it'll
be on the way out*
cause none of us are
fussed at its piling tout
our environment is under
a waste cloud
may we soon see a lifting
*of its grotty shroud