It’s Winter now and still I see, it’s hard to be a prisoner,
Hard to be free, the great disease of hope
Is lost to us all, you’re all alone but seldom at peace.
The world must be born again ,washed clean and renewed,
Scraped free of its arrogance ,bigotry and greed .
Selfish hands always grasping and keeping,
Orphans and widows quietly weeping, depravity seeping into the headless structure of society.
I murdered my soul to be found again , but it would not die, only me.
I take my tea out on the lawn, it’s freezing now and so am I .
It proves I’m alive, ergo I am undead, so much left unsaid.
I’d like to tell my story, but who would listen to tales of my crazy years.
So many things are clearer from a distance, up close it’s all so vague.
Deliver back to me all the years I wasted and I will try again,
To better my efforts, to give it my all and find a direction ,
From inception to corruption, blind and unkind,
Folly and fire, frivolous and fanciful, it’s all so tasteless these days.
The cold wind sprays icy bullets into our hearts
And we may never be warm again, only cushioned by jaded dreams,
Bursting at the seams with innuendo and falsehood.
I have not told my tale yet, only how it is with me.
It is as you see, a mission of incompleteness,
I crafted my world from old shadows, I smoothed out the road and filled in the hollows,
I sheltered from the storm within my hide but now it’s over I’m coming out,
To face this faded place to resurrect memories, almost erased, but not quite yet,