Winter

The snow falls upon the tracks, worn from beaten slaves

an icy chiseled monument guise the lost sheep.

Pressured alloy, cold dime in the spine.

Father's pressing sons, do not cry , be brave.

Every moment passing, half a dozen fall behind.

Drifting from the charcoal clouds, collecting on the heaps.

Roars of thunder, lightning strikes scar the Earth below.

How long until the mother reclaims the walking carcasses

Bringing back to the Earth and ending all sorrow?

The snow falls upon the flock fallen and lost,

the gates have been broken set free those in front

as the bodies still are smoking, in a house

meant to deceive. The front is broken, set them free.