(I hate this cute little rhythm, and for it, I apologize.)
Empty melodies in frigid air,
a taste hollow and lacking will -
so fallen on black ashes where
they brush upon the windowsill.
Melancholy in the shade of
the morbid and distant dusk.
Ice breaths upon a dearth of love,
which is veiled with wild musk.
Voices brush the lonely souls
who are justly now defined
by the lifeless touch of sable coals
and soft words “the left behind.”
Licking wisps of indigo fire
is somber to their bitter skin.
They are lyrics to the choir
of angels, bearing mandolins.
Sinister and lithe, the willows,
So sanative, lullaby the men
to their redeemer pillows
from which they never rise again.
