Gothic-Surrealism

Words of a world, strange though wonderful.

Winter

Summer’s funeral has surely come!

For sure it is bedtime for the warmth

and the awakening of the chill.

 

Trees have been stripped of their leaves.

All that stands are their naked bodies;

opened to the ruins of fall.

 

How beaten we are, how abused by each other.

Shall hell’s fury or heaven’s grace rule?

Our moon cuts a wink for us in the night sky,

 

shall we ever be mocked further?

From spring’s birth to summer’s life,

fall’s ill to winter’s death.