The forlorn trees dance in the wind’s song
And I will dream of spring on the autumnal leaves

You will thread them, brumal rose, warm home,
And the decaying hand of life will guide me to your fire

You are the word morose.
A naked tree

I will wade in the waters of death searching for your
Eyes as if sunken diamonds, forgotten dreams

Creating a vessel of flotsam and flowers
And we will glide faster than day

But Death will edge closer
Like a teary-eyed river

That separates your sinking heart
From my sleeping body