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World is sick,
clung to by tired arms.
His dying children,
they reach for feathers they may catch
but will never quite grasp.
Through weary fingers, the melting snow,
leaves the safety of loving hands.
Rivers meander like fearful questions,
oceans of dark answers await.
Ours they are to cross.
In the cold water
alone will we always be.
Whom comes ashore,
shiver, they are so cold.
The triumph of a dying kind,,
the fantastic bittersweetness of unshared heat.
but sometimes he listens.
Shafts of sunshine through dripping leaves,
faint warmth clearing the mist,
and amid the smells of fallen rain
I see her,
and forget
The sound of my own breath.
(not sure if i like it myself yet)
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