I like it    I don't like it

Fallen from grace

My soul's grown old

Birds are dying

as fading light

draws last mourning beam

Across the hillside

Dark moors lay cold

And quiet this night

Blackbirds crying

As freezing moon lays cruel

deathly beams

Through your minds eye

Elegy of what these open wounds

may bleed

All alone with hatred growing

unborn seed