Carmine Branco


The wind blows

gushing through 

the night,

like an endless


rupturing all it finds

in it's sight.

The blood pale moon

shivers with fright,

clinging to the heavens

it once lit so bright.

The silver trees,

sparkling with their

diamond jewel of ice,

send a note of tingling

bells ringing through

the night.

The restless souls

whisper their prayers

to the heavens around,

no sleep for the helpless,

no pity for their pain.

On the dark streets 

of men they walk in


hoping to find shelter

to end this god forsaken day.

As they walk, 

as if on air,

they call out names

of mercy and despair.

No staff to carry,

no proof of will,

searching for tomorrow

as they die a bit each day.

Wrapped in a shroud 

of darkness,

they attend to the rising sun,

to disperse the clouds

of grief and to live

in a forever tomorrow

and forget that yesterday 

has ever come.

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