Ruins have since wrought creation.
Snow knows no more than mist,
as dark windows
fill black bile veins and clouds
cover a head bursting with ice.
In the interest of selves
words have been raised but with no further thought
than justice that skews itself.
Relics now lain upon perverted dogma
have rusted under deep sheets of sleet.
Now clouds will wait to cook souls
as screams now only sigh as
courage scampers to mere survival.
No hope is the sturdiest backbone of hours
spent to self,
though it is seldom seen that a visitor is not only
those who knock at a door.
In the dark night there is little to see but colors
that only exist in memory,
so let a candle burn until the day
that memory no longer knows itself and thought
is but a page in a book.