Bloodstained Glass
Withering skin
Dying echoes of Screams
Echoing among the pines.
Dying wood, dying leaves,
No-one listens to the screams of those,
Who do not wish to live,
When they are dying.
Bereaved,
Forgotten,
Lost.
No Procession awaits they who face the gates of death as they live,
A Funeral will not be marked for he who has no mourners.
Only bloodstained fragments,
Bloodstained razors,
Bloodstained soil, growing cold as winter sets in.
The soil of the grave dug by he who lies within it.
Falling leaves, dying winds, the fading voice of wisdom from the Pines,
Echo…until now autumn is at last dead.
Just this single death shall mark the end of autumn's burial procession.
Winter rides in,
The brilliance of the algidity,
The spectacle of frostbitten pine trees shall carry my soul on silken winds.
She died weeks ago,
Now, it is I who shall die.
Loneliness is a curse,
The curse of which is waiting,
Waiting for someone who will never come,
Who really has already gone,
Long ago.