Fruits Of A Frigid Harvest

Grown wild is the brush within the foresting breeze,
Where my determination travels in a renascent brevity.
Blind are the eyes of emotion that blink to no avail,
And wake in times of closely kept darkness, yet close to such a truth.

Naked lay the fields of spiritually longing tides,
As a harvest reaps a recumbent tranquility that fades fast.
Journeyed the body weeps of somber tales that churn in the legs of a burdened mule,
Determined to take one more step, but only by the crack of a harsh whip.

Violet breezes wist by in the nightly aura of moonlighting earnest,
Where the yearning youth overtakes a heart in intoxicated heat.
Lifeless is the birth of another vibrance inside this cocoon,
As the blanket of virtuosity begins to beget holes of indifference.

Sunlight breathes a warmth of inner solitude to ears of silence,
Within the fortress of a king entranced by volatile sobriety.
Sky-lit sunsets dance in the dreams of a colored future,
Since futilely fertile fruits of this instant ripen only within hindsight.

Reality centers amidst the clouded expedition of tomorrow,
And gearing fate turns over another leaf in the winters of frigid snow.
Birth defines itself in the divinity of a clerical exuberance within,
But death devours the cutthroat morals of silent men who weep evaporated fear.