Winter Pine.

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Fallen amiss,
squalid leaves twist
through the vortex
of winter's breath.

Toward hallowed ground,
where martyrs lie
in graves unsound.

Strewn atop barren knolls,
and withered stones
in forsaken whispers
of truths untold.

Rapt in scorn,
sorrow and woe
for the unborn
hopes of tomorrow.

Bound within reality's seams,
sailing upon shallow soiled streams
of promise and pilgrim dreams.

Onto shore, where the silver fires gleam.

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