Trees bent to the wind,

Like broken dolls,

Arms dangling and limp,

Frozen in place,

Whilst dancing around the white lillies...

Which have now begun to rot.

The cold, lifeless eyes of the toys,


Yet you fear they watch you...

I stare at them and make believe I could be them,

And be dead to this world.

I exhale,

And the frigid wind rapidly snatches the steam of breath away from my lips.

Crow calls from the desolate, bent trees,

I look up,

As I feel a numbness crawling through me.

Like black blood beginning to pulse through my veins,

A disease to replace life.

This plague.

I try to hug the warmth back into myself,

Clenching my hands into fists.

Pale clouds scratch into the grey sky,

Making the crow,

As it flies away, seem like a stain on ashen velvet.

I shiver,

Desperately trying to keep the coldness away,

But it seeps in,

And the warmth is slipping away,

Out of my white lips.

I squeeze my eyes shut,

But the tears creep out.

I feel like I am a broken doll.

I open my eyes,

In awe of the tree,

Stark in its majesty.

And in my hands I see stains of black...

The crow against the white.

Black like the blood.

Black tears for me to cry.

The numbness sweeps over me,

One final time.


Broken doll,

With broken eyes,

Petals of black in her hands.

Frozen in time.

Stark onyx tear drops,

On her pale blanched dress.

An unmoving corpse,

Or trapped within.