|
Now the snow just as might lay cloaking all the remains shrouding of all the wounds and sores of losses and fatigue with pure, white amnesia |
|
The shrieking ruin of a hard winter's kiss takes forever more summers to mend |
|
Rather it lay cold and dead than revealed in all it's necrotic splendour |
|
In days of revolt |
|
I too would carry a torch and swing at my arrows |
|
But time is ruthless and heals nothing |
|
For the sun uncovers by it's taunting rays are like swords to lies life and dreams, however nightmarish (are built upon) |
