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| "Despair stretches for miles, a carpet of silver..." |
Bleakwind.
Where once life frolicked and people went about
Now a dark wind chimes, sending the land into drought
No fire from the sun, only the cold that winter brings
That scours anything still living, anything that still clings
To life and hope in the season of despair
A season in which nothing ever does seem fair
For even all good things must come to and end
Your spine now chills, your flesh, frost will rend
Trees contract inwards, gnarled branches warping and writhing
In the shrill, sinister wind, also effortlessly slicing
Through flesh and through bone, bringing men to their knees
Even now, not one person sees
How death and decay
And all life fading to gray
Are all normal parts of the winter
That causes all hope to splinter.
One may think winter is a time of peace and giving
A time for fun and laughter, a season for forgiving
But none know when winter was the inevitability of life
When all vigor was gone, and when silent, was all strife
For even creation is the precursor to death
Even the hardiest warrior becomes short out of breath
When his life is gone, and his soul now departs
Body growing cold, lifeless, his heart
And that is the substance of winter's woe
Death and despair - two halves of one eternal foe
That may never be conquered, never beaten, never turned
To the path of Good; rather die as the world now burned
Not in flames most ardent, but unfeeling ice
No sensation to be felt, nothing so nice
As a warm summer's breeze - only stasis and cold
Now that the Bleakwind grows ever so bold.
Picturesque fields form graveyards of gray
A field of death, a plot of obscenity, if I may
Revealing horrors no man chooses to face
Willingly, keeping them hidden in life's twisted race
From birth to death, many escape without blemish
But some still crumble, some may perish
Fall into the void, cut and torn by bitter gales
Echoing through space, but not through the ages
Too late to be saved - left to become rotten
With a chorus of misery; one that is ultimately forgotten
And winter now becomes the season of woe
It was always meant to be - life's eternal foe.
Despair stretches for miles, a carpet of silver
Isolated and alone; the Bleakwind is left to pilfer
Or perhaps chip away at the blank walls of sanity
Break down reality and fiction; force one to fall to insanity
And the season of joy and gift-giving
Becomes an ordeal unforgiving
Decay and despair now reclaim their season
Of misery and entropy, for no logical reason
Other than spite and unending cold
Now the forces of darkness can grow ever bold
Chilly climes now turn into desolate stretches
Miles of land, and the twisted, warped wretches
That were once known as human, now having to rescind
All form of pleasure, to the bitter, bitter Bleakwind.
Source of photo of bleak landscape: http://fineartamerica.com/featured/bleak-gary-yates.html
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