I feel not the wind
Upon my face, or
The sunrise of
A warming embrace.

Left to search the
Horizon for meaning -
Hollow of reason,
No green leaves for
Redeeming.

A history of woven
Veins - a trailing of
Peril and bane.

Emerald woodland
Hewn into black
Winding lanes, by
Human hands,
Heedless and vain.

Scarlet soaked soil
Of wars won and lost,
Reminiscent of lives
Vanishing in the wake
Of once silver frost.

Piercing and searing;
Ever gazing, the
Blanket of night slowly
Raising.

Showing the earth's
Dying breath, in
Humanities ride to
A willing death.

As ever do I guard,
Time and folly my
Facade.