stinking fog rose from the roots of a great oak standing on the periphere of an ancient wood
lost in its own darkness, lost without hope, lost in the bewilderment of ancient, absent beacons
sans touch of hand, the sound of a welcome, the whisper of letters loving on a name once treasured
it began to die, leaves fallen sans colour, roots rising to the cold trembling of Winter come stay
giant crows stood amid weather, celebrating the season, a time to chill and kill, a time to forget purity past
its will not be done, neither the gentle touch of coming Spring.. a meak world passing as if time was faceless
no favours, nor rosaries or resistance, no more the seasons’ scents and trembling of lovers apart together
comes a moment, pausing, looking, seeing the scene as if come from space spectacular pleading why
what had taken place in an arena, thousands cheering, thumbs exhilerant, bloodlets congealed, concealed
gave pleasure to those sitting on the wrong hand of the minor gods buried in soil so foul death lived
as was the plan, the raison d’etre of those vicious tallons, scrunching sounds sought to do their worst
as planned by the force of an unrelenting bow to a halo where once was a scarlet kiss to wishing it well
