Brown and distorted like old winter leaves
hopes, wishes, needs, litter the ground
where once dew drops foretold happiness
in their own unique glitter and shine.
Trees acquiesce to the chill of the times
and adopt a grave and sombre repose
as a way of convincing the inbred beautiful
to sleep away grief until born again.
The blue of the sky retreats hastily
to wait beyond the reach of all fears
and the clouds inflate with ominous grey
to prevent the advance of the untenable.
There in that dark and cold landscape
no birds can ever be heard or seen
and the wind refuses to usher in
a fresh breath of encouraging air.
I stand as a witness not distant, apart,
but one embroiled in the matters of heart
on fire and burning within where it hurts
and blackens the gold of belief.
I stand, yes, but do teeter so
when dispirited by the march of turmoil
that has no regard, no respect, no love,
for what was intended to be!