The Owls Die in Winter

Cold peace, reflected psalms of unmatched melancholy touching down with deep grey wings of winds, belted and bruised like a child from a broken home, whose eyes open with terror and choler, mourning himself, mourning the cold...

Black, jagged spindles of putrid ice, expanding with the grip of morrows ever after, forged in death and smoke, steam rivers which call out in silence, seasons of transition and anger of energy melting immortal hopes, singing emptiness...

An owl's cry, dark sought moaning at abstract lights, a faded peace, it fades into moonlight, frozen trees and iced rivers turn their necks as the breeze beats back with the sundering calls of the birds asleep, lifelessness like their shrill suicides...

...and the world is all out of words, they cannot reach us...

...they cannot reach them.