The Cold Wind

The Cold Wind By Matt Cresswell


The ice glazes over serenity,
What is there left for the lost one,
The eyes sting with blood tears,
Sound of a lone walker left to the cold,

The midnight moon haunts the light,
Forming shadows of drowned peace,
The heart slows to the wind,
Only sense of intuitive warning,

Piercing the glass, the ice prism echoes the screams,

A grave of a fallen angel forms the way,
That morbid shrine of darkness,

Perfect blue light staggers the mind,
Evading hope and reality,
The purity of innocent dreams,
Leaving behind the denied existence,

Rain weeps down the occult fear,
Negating the effect of the distant sigh,
An obscure white blossom emerges,
A girl giggling as she falls beneath the surface,

The hollow entities evanescence,
Insanity clouds the beholder,

Through the temple the grave images blur,
The silence echo’s a thousand howling cries,
A sad trail of chilled inhibiton,
The bitter mist draws in and out,

The drowning pool submerged,
Another passing night,
A dulled consciousness,
Caught in a waking dream of tomorrow's nightmares,

It is time to leave,

In the field chaos looms,
They try to hide amongst stolen memories,
Frozen beneath the unknown abyss,
They watch and wait for the immergence of the outsider,

The lost one.