There’s a mountain of crows
Crawling about my mind.
Distant snowy peaks
Tall, looming firs
And the faint, eerie howl
Of the wind
Settling through furry boughs.
I dont want comfort anymore
I want slow, agonizing pain
Of cold feet and biting breath.
Let darkness fill my voids
With only the fire
Inside my eyes
Feeding the warmth.
Here, I will stack wood
Against stained boards
Of an ancient vision;
Architectures ancestor
Where notches have been worn
By our rattling wind
That kept the night
Hallowed at home.
