One hundred years of rain falling in sheets of ice
eating away at the foundations of memory
One hundred years of the walls moaning
and slowly giving way
to the past.
Our whole lives are monuments to loneliness
words in a dead language chiselled
on scattered monoliths.
We travel wrapped in shrouds of past laughter
in ragged wails,
Our wings marking us as outcasts
our eyes clouded with wonders
The sky is filled with rain clouds
forebodings of endings
and new beginnings.
Ashes and bloodied footprints mark my passage
and under them
Twin spindly bridges of black stone
one leading to the land of the living,
The one will lead me to your embrace.