Untitled

With time comes the still, the dead night winds chill,

Blowing faintly in a wolves furred over ear.

Healing the will, all in due kind.

As the brook flows its babbling tear.

Drink from it till, your heart and the kill,

Are better then done, back where they're from.

And speak as birds sing, in the morning time frost.

On a cool winters day, where the flowers are tossed.

And the torturous souls, walk on the sharp,

Bones and black spirits, who hide in the dark.

Telling tales and lies, leaving no ties.

Disappearing as quick as a prey to her mark.

Listen instead to voices sublime, of virtue and truth and good in design.

My ears so they tire, embellished the liar, and peace, I so do hope for and find.