Tristan Robert Lange

Our Bitter End

What day is this, what hour,
That darkness fills the sky?
Brutal, cold, damp, and brittle
Are such days of eternal gloom.

The winds howl like beasts,
Like famished wolves on the hunt.
The air is thin and very sharp,
Cutting through life like a razor.

If one can be still,
If one can bear the wind,
If one can stand there frozen,
The death of time can be heard.

Its ticking is slowing down
Until it ticks no more,
Like the failure of a weakened,
Sickly, pale and shriveled heart.

Just then...what\'s this?
Some light breaks through,
But it only teases the senses
As the gloom laughs at the illusion.

Foolish hope amidst hopelessness,
The laugh is dissonant,
It penetrates the soul thoroughly,
Violating any shred of salvation.

This day is inauspicious,
It mocks those who live,
It turns melancholy to despair,
It hollows their mortal coil.

There is no escape from
This damnable, icy, coldness.
For the winter is approaching...
Fast approaching...always approaching.

What day finds life renewed;
What hour is free from mockery,
From the damnable, glassy grin
Of winter\'s solitary stare?

The winds envelope the living
Like a blanket of frostbite
Eating away at the frozen flesh
And leaving behind a hardened shell.

If one can await the warmth,
If one can ignore the pain,
If one can just survive,
The hope of life would still fail.

Just as the cycle of the seasons
Work from spring to winter
So, too, does the cycle of life
Work its way toward certain death.

Hush! Still your heart!
Silence your breathing
And you will definitely hear it,
The ringing of Winter\'s shrill howl.

It calls us out by name,
One by one, we lose ourselves
To it\'s frigid, icy persona;
No longer do we breathe warmth.

Like an enigmatically beautiful painting,
Hung high above on a wall,
Death stares, blankly gazing,
Following the souls who lie in wait.

Who will begin the procession?
Who will bear the burdensome weight?
Through the barren mile or so
We shall walk to our bitter end.