The wind gusts fitfully baring a harsh cold edge,
That cuts like a numbing blade, jagged.....
Bleeding wounds that wont ever heal,
But covered by the dust thats raised.....
In swirling cyclonic torrents....
As the frigid demonic wind does its work,
Shrouding the light source already dim,
Making this wasteland more barren, more....
Like the metaphor of perfect desolation,
Though its imperfections make it so,
And the wain ghosts that linger on....
In the turbulance cold and dark,
Illusions of dreams caught in fine dust nets....
Of deceit and abandonment,
Remembered for their failure and pain,
Miserable knights of broken and forgotten...
Glories and ideals.....
That 'ere long passed into oblivion,
Though grand was their inception,
Mighty deeds came forth and here they rest,
Gone into the past like so many other....
Regrets piled high like bodies in times of war,
Ash that has mingled with the dust and wind,
Just another shade of grey that dwells here,
With forlorn ghosts and mispent actions,
Entangled in this morass....
That suffocates you....
As you stand inside my heart.
Gold trophy winner
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