Hear the deadfall winter wind chants.
Sit in your treeshadowed escape,
listen to the hums of forlorn forest lore.
Speak through the ancient old oracles,
and breath in the cursed foul that the lords blow down upon you.
The long, darkened maroon nights.
Fed solid tar through plastic funnels.
Bleed their eyes with entertaining virals.
Mainstream, the dark black stream.
Leave it black.
Alleyways, every which way.
Littered with tree branches from the driven west winds.
Hibernate while the winter lingers,
basks in its seemingly endless blank.
Sideways whips, freezes.
Ride out the mulling white.
A wall of broken bolts and the iced rain.
Travel along a split sky.
Monocromatic, kinetic spears lob down unnoticed.
You can't seem to see the light when your eyes are flooded with kaleidoscopic color.