Weird Poetry

The barren greyscale fingers

Of the cloud-raking treebones

Rattle like an empty ribcage

In the dessicating winter wind.

The land they grow in,

Void of colour,

Void of light,

Remains covered in sprawls of snow and frost

And voidful fissures of blizzard-bitten ache.




*** For when winter doesn’t feel so pretty and lightlike, and is more grey than white. ***