Appalachian Winter


Can you not hear the high lonesome?
Through the shaking oak, whispering
Deep and alone, blowing solitude
A hunter's heart knows
Has seen it, felt its place, known its caress
Sharp crystal embrace tempered with numbness
The old and new gods smile knowing
The reaping turn, harvest is closed
Dusted and wept, silent coldness
Kissing a macabre cold skeleton
Polished crystal branches blowing through time
Remembered always numbness and despair
Rolling echo, cracked, split, thunder
Breath taken in, exhaled painfully
Paradise a crazy mad man repeats in lisp
Beauty rounded on a pristine face
Leaving me crumpled and gasping,
Howling snow wandering, drifting and dancing
Lighting softly upon thoughts
Burning my past, churning
Whispering memories of times gone by.
High lonesome, can you not hear me?

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