A poem
I clasp the memory
with crooked hands,
seared upon my soul forevermore.
A withered garland, black with dread,
removing all the parts
that hardens my heart.
Wedded like wefts in the weave of the skein,
the spirits come to play,
a mixture of dread and tears.
A longing somewhere in the wind,
where broken souls cry out,
and sing their saddest songs
upon the waves.
In the depths of sweet serenity,
I burn despite the chill,
where lonely stars bleed their light
in the frost of my heart.
As I awaken from a dream,
the winds of mourning call
while the future sighs with a solemn face,
a lonely migrant on your shore.