Frosted windows in white sinews
Let the voices of the wind
Come through in whispers, views
Of barren landscapes, tint
Won't let through street light
That I, admit, never liked
Would rather see candles flicker
They won't make me feel sicker
As brightness can be blinding
And I rarely find it guiding.
Instead I am fighting to preserve
Low tolerance to light, it serves
Moving shapes of shadows
In the corner of my eyes
Every second one of them dies,
Envelopes, engages in silence
Calls to wonder frozen meadows
And leave all remnants of violence
Like a myriad of ghostly wolves
Singing to the pale sickle,
That left this place for dolls
Such as you and me to cycle
Through seasons of withering soil
Underneath patched concrete to toil
With no purpose but to live,
Love, give and forgive.
A.K.
Let the voices of the wind
Come through in whispers, views
Of barren landscapes, tint
Won't let through street light
That I, admit, never liked
Would rather see candles flicker
They won't make me feel sicker
As brightness can be blinding
And I rarely find it guiding.
Instead I am fighting to preserve
Low tolerance to light, it serves
Moving shapes of shadows
In the corner of my eyes
Every second one of them dies,
Envelopes, engages in silence
Calls to wonder frozen meadows
And leave all remnants of violence
Like a myriad of ghostly wolves
Singing to the pale sickle,
That left this place for dolls
Such as you and me to cycle
Through seasons of withering soil
Underneath patched concrete to toil
With no purpose but to live,
Love, give and forgive.
A.K.
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