Desolate Meadows

I don't know how many unopened letters

Must have come across your desk,

But I recognise the fetters

That grip your pen - it's so grotesque.

It's all but nothing - it's flame and feathers -

Keeping warm your room at night.

You're in the field of heathers

But they've been sickened by the blight.

Condolences through fields of desolation

Echo trivial of cries

And smother bouts of the elation,

Which wither in the last sunrise.

The tears are melting through corrupted seeds

While wind bites your solemn lips.

The time has come to bury weeds

And to let go of winter's grips.

The distant howl of death emits despair

And the furnace stays so dim.

But I can see that distant flare

Within your eyes - such pale grim.

Collect the letters - break their somber spell

So I can set them all to blaze;

You know the story that they tell

And I can sense their cold embrace.

Let me hold your hand and head above black earth,

The distant lands await us.

We shall cross the veils full with mirth

And drift above the grass.