• Fear not the author, but the readers
    Of this most gruesome atrocity;
    Dying foll'wers and living leaders
    Fall victim to animosity.

    Dark blankets strewn in joyous billows
    O'ercast above the weeping willows,
    Virgin flakes sleeping without a sound;
    None to know a scene half so profound

    From the river, given to the lake
    Flowing, snowing; ceasing in your wake.
    The ice conforming about the rim,
    The land of dreams from your good night hymn.

    You search high and low, and land afar
    Reaching into your chest, through the scar
    Sealing a cave where your heart should be,
    Grasping and pulling to set it free.

    Long lost within the land's collection,
    Enslaved by thoughts of your perfection
    'Daisy mutilated by your hand;
    Death brought back by popular demand

    Snow now substituted by ancient sand,
    Your broken thoughts mean 'end' for the land
    Whose sole purpose was to bring you joy.
    Even children know peace is no toy.