You Were But a Ghost In My Arms

Like snowfall, you cry a silent storm Your tears paint rivers on this oaken wall. . Amber nectar, misery ichor . . .cascading in streams of hallowed form For each stain, a forsaken shadow You are the lugubrious spirit Etched in the oak of wonder You are the sullen voice and silent storm Each night I lay Awakened by her shivering silent voice From the shapes in the corridor walls It pierces the solitude like that of a distant scream In the pitch-black forest of my delusion. . With each passing day, a deeper grave. . "Why did you leave me to die?" "Why did you abandon me?" "Why did you walk away and leave me bitterly yearning?" Her haunting, contorted despair was etched into the wood's grain Though fire rages within me, no fire burns fiercer than her desire The shape whispers my name. . I damn this oak! I damn her sorrow! I damn these oaken corridors That bear the ghosts of those I've thrown away! Though tempted I am to caress her texture divine And taste her pain sweet, sweet like brandy wine; I must burn these halls, these corridors And silence her shrill, tormenting voice . . .forever. . Like snowfall, you cried a silent storm No tears stain this dust in my hands But from this ashen gray, her voice still Whispers my name. . You were the lugubrious spirit Who haunted the oak of wonder You were the geist that warned this frozen silent storm You were but a ghost in my arms