• The black one finds his heart within the cold months
    When he takes from us the most, but gives back just as much.
    An eternity of souls from countless flowing ribbons in time
    To return from the dark in spring's renewal.


    We say the white shroud is a work of the lord or mother nature,
    Call it what you want, read from the bible or drawn from a beaker;
    This is neither theirs nor ours, it is the sickle master who makes it fall;
    A billion ivory souls from the sky.


    We pay them no heed, just a moist breeze to our cheeks.
    We are shaping their lives as we tread
    That one second between them; a generation.
    Altered without an ounce of consideration.


    I stop and look to see them fall across the moon,
    And maybe, perhaps, if one should fall my way
    and grace me with a feather touch
    I might meet them and be better for it.