Like snowfall, you cry a silent storm

Your tears paint rivers on this oaken wall. . .

Amber nectar, misery ichor

. . .cascading in streams of hallowed form

For each stain, a forsaken shadow



You are the lugubrious spirit

Etched in the oak of wonder

You are the sullen voice and silent storm



Each night I lay

Awakened by her shivering silent voice

From the shapes in the corridor walls.

It pierces the solitude like that of a distant scream

In the pitch-black forest of my delusion. . .



With each passing day, a deeper grave. . .



"Why did you leave me to die?"

"Why did you abandon me?"

"Why did you walk away and leave me bitterly yearning?"



Her haunting, contorted despair was etched into the wood's grain

Though fire rages within me, no fire burns fiercer than her desire

The shape whispers my name. . .



I damn this oak!

I damn her sorrow!

I damn these oaken corridors

That bear the ghosts of those I've thrown away!



Though tempted I am to caress her texture divine

And taste her pain sweet, sweet like brandy wine;

I must burn these halls, these corridors

And silence her shrill, tormenting voice

. . .forever. . .



Like snowfall, you cried a silent storm

No tears stain this dust in my hands

But from this ashen gray, her voice still

Whispers my name. . .



You were the lugubrious spirit

Who haunted the oak of wonder

You were the geist that warned this frozen silent storm

You were but a ghost in my arms