#mournful
The pine stands upright, illuminating even at first sight.
It has not been planted; it has always been rooted.
The wind harasses its leaves, yet it feels affection.
The storm strikes its branches, yet it remains unfallen.
The spruces do not turn toward it; the pine watches them all from above.
It knows which is which, but it is known by none.
Its hollow is as large as the forest, a keeper of timeless legends.
Its roots are as old as the forest, covering the soil like tentacles.
It is nature’s impostor, and that is its sincerity.
It is nature’s protector, and that is its duty.
It is the mother, yet has never raised a fighter.
It is the father, yet has never had a daughter.
Its children have forgotten it; it still feeds them.
Its descendants have renounced it; it is still within their spirit.
The pine stands upright; even its posture lifts it to the summit.
It wonders without surprise whether one day the chosen one will see.
The one it chooses is the whole forest, everyone.
The one it means to choose is no one.
It does not wait; it keeps the depths for the select.
It flees into its labyrinth without hiding; the spruces do not know this is a test.
Away from its lost children, it leaves only flat ground on the surface.
Always their shadow, it keeps living in their hollow.
The pine still remembers it came from the spruce.
― Atrona Grizel
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 1:56 PM UTC
_They flicker—
petals plucked from unseen gardens,
their colors bleeding into the hush of the sky.
A whisper of lilac, of crushed gold,
of rain-drenched sapphire,
they spiral like forgotten prayers._
Underneath the aching hush of dusk,
the butterfly’s wings
shimmer like glass about to break—
__fragile, too fragile,__
as if beauty was never meant to last.
Mist hums in the hollow between trees.
The meadow, once a cradle of light,
now wilts into sighs,
its perfume dampened with grief.
_And still they rise,
a shiver of soft rebellion,
a trembling hymn against the dimming world._
Each beat of wing,
_a memory unmade,_
a soft ache threading through twilight veins,
leaving ghost-lit trails
in the evening’s failing breath.
Perhaps this is how paradise fades—
not with fire,
but with the slow, silver drowning
of wings too heavy with dreams.
Apr 26, 2025
Apr 26, 2025 at 6:03 PM UTC
Many words met death on my tongue,
On the cusp of their birth,
On the ****** of their existence,
Snuffed before ignition.
My lips can’t budge,
Inside- I am screaming,
Inside- I howl my voice hoarse,
None of this needs surface,
None of this needs thought.
Still,
Death marching on-and-on,
There are no medals to win,
Gasp a breath, salute my death,
Et la fin.
EH.Jan.08.2025
Graveyard © 2025 by Echo Halden is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
Feb 26, 2025
Feb 26, 2025 at 6:51 AM UTC
The cello strains;
It sobs with me.
Laments a love
That cannot be.
The minor keys
that cannot sing
Play mournful notes
On broken string
Until the end of this discord
A melody worth waiting on.
Such harmony is thus restored
For I shall see my love anon.
Oct 29, 2020
Oct 29, 2020 at 11:18 AM UTC
It is hard to grasp the stars,
when you stare at the dirt;
and only see your calloused hands.
You look forward;
yet see nothing.
You look behind
and feel regret.
Your body
Your mind
Tired
There is no sense of direction
There is no inspiration
starring upon your calloused hands
You, *** and bang
against the grain,
rambling on;
Not knowing
if you move,
Forward or
Reverse.
Time doesn't stand
Only your task at hand
starring upon your calloused hands.
Friends and family
are just a luxury.
Soon
they will be gone,
leaving you,
to grind away...
Again.
The task is complete;
Looking down to see
Nothing ... but your winkled hands.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
Long are the nights now
When dreams are no longer kind
Through air prowls the imminence of death
Soaks my soul, the mirth has gone
In my weariness all seem dull
Nothing to feel or imagine
Still hearing her voice, my hearse
Bedimming the memories left behind
In the moment of despair
A haunting melody pours from my lips
And fades into lurking darkness
Carving out my eyes to see
The secrets behind the shattered drapery
A journey through the lands of nihil
I've been here before
Jan 2, 2020
Jan 2, 2020 at 4:58 AM UTC
An idle cry echoes through the void
As silhouettes root away my thoughts
Ominous whispers louden, killing the peace
Leaving no solace behind
Confined to a long-lost hope
Seeking the forlorn smile
Yet, drowning within my own breath
Above my head, dwells a hungry ghost
Jan 2, 2020
Jan 2, 2020 at 4:53 AM UTC
I was walking through the wood
On a pleasant sunny day
when I came across a hollow
Dug deep and in my way
I peered deep into its depths
As far as I could see
Yet the chasm was as dark as coal
And stretched to eternity
I decidedly moved closer
To this unplumbed murky hole
But felt my sole slip on the Earth
Into the depths untold
I felt myself grow panicked
As the light began to fade
I began to brace for impact
I held my breath and prayed
And yet to my surprise
I never seemed to hit the floor
But kept falling on and on
Now and evermore
I’ve grown to love the dark
My eyes have grown adjusted
My heart is filled with hate
For the world that I once trusted
Yet on pleasant sunny days
I can still make out the sun
Shining deep into my cave
Where light there should be none
And I feel my eyes start to tear
Why, I’ll never know
But perhaps I miss the woods above
While I remain Below
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 11:11 AM UTC
The wind speaks to me at night
It cascades and whistles in mid flight
I see in it the wonder
And destruction like the thunder
It tells me of the clouds
And how they love to clump in crowds
Perhaps the wind will save us
With it's mighty and powerful gust
I wish to ask it questions
And to express my confessions
The howling shrieks seems mournful
Like those of a mere mortal
I suppose nothing is free from pain
Even nature is bound by chain
How I long to ask the wind
Why it's voice must rescind
For days at a time it will not visit
My window pane forgets its kisses
As I forget its touch on my skin
I wonder where my wind has been
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
There's no screen in my window
I know, I know
It's a three story drop
I know, I know
Insects can get in
But heights do not scare me
Bugs are pretty cute
And I can have my cigarettes
In the warm glow of the space heater
And in the warm glow of the sun
I can have the best view
Of the same tree
With a different squirrel's nest
In the same crook of the same bough
As it had always been before
I can lean out and hear
Different proclamations
From the same man
At the same school
That I try so hard to forget
I know, I know
The screen will be replaced
I know, I know
The view will still existt
But I will always remember
How my world looks
Without all the small grey boxes
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 4:06 AM UTC
Imagine your ice cold fingers
Like melting candle wax,
Seeping onto a window pane,
Waiting for the ever looming ******
Imagine a bed of flower thorns,
Digging into your skin.
Convince yourself it's normal,
Tell yourself to start again.
Wait patiently for the sound of the lark.
Wait quietly for the non-existent spark.
Tell all your friends and your ex lovers too,
Tell me what they think of you.
When morning is gone and night won't start,
Make yourself pull apart
From the demons inside your soul.
I won't follow them where they go.
If you cry before you wake,
Say one good prayer for goodness sake.
And if you die before you rise,
There's nothing left to do.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
I don’t understand,
And yet I do.
The clover is considered lucky,
I guess I need one to help me through,
I am blue and that is sad,
But the sky is blue is the sky sad?
I wear my raincoat to avoid the water,
And yet I cleanse my sorrows in a the wet embrace of a shower,
They wash away and run down the drain,
A small weight off my back so I don’t waste away.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
she brings him tea,
a piece of cheese late morn
for he has been toiling since dawn
his plane shaving the wood reverently
the old oak speaking, though not complaining,
in a language the man does not understand
a coughing code for loss, forbearance, acceptance,
redemption, he hopes, for the boys keep coming…
first from Ypres, the Verdun,
now the Marne
before, he heaved hewn planks
for the hopeful homes, built their pantries
to be filled with the bread, the kind milk
now the sawn boards are for those who once
watched his labors, but no longer hear the simple
sounds of sanding, sawing
or anything at all
most of the lads do not come home,
their souls and bodies left to rot on the blood sullied grass
or buried shallow, naked in the French soil, but all get a fine coffin
thanks to the carpenter’s wife, whose babe was the first to fall,
who demands for them all, a holy horizontal home to be built
and, empty or not, placed gently in Anglican ground
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC