in a trail dark cold amidst a blizzard
there's a frail one
looking for a path
one buried 3 feet under by snow
yet you stand on your porch
and judge that he's wrong
not one holds out a lamp
with wolves in the woods
all thirsty for his blood
none shall be his savor
burdened by a York
lean and fierce are his trails
hangs by a thread the hope of achieve
but his heart has grown cold
he's no longer the boy tucked in by old Edna
for his hands are scarred
deeply cut into his heart
and the flakes of the blizzard
have conquered his heart
there's no warmth in him
his eyes once full of innocence
now cold and speak no less than the tongue
of death
glassy replaced love
hatred in place of passion
out of the frozen field arose a dead heart
for he has followed the trail
and not a hand not a breath of help
©peakynate
P