The swallowed voice, that wallows from the pit of my soul,

Speaks in the desolate ancient tongue of Sultans,

To the air a sharp whisper of silver bells in Saturn's season,

The lone and prose of a tree long since fallen and shaved clean,

Torn to pieces and strewn around the erect bridge ending in a wall,

 

A salty sleet stings these eyes,

echoing the claws of the prisoner tallying the days,

Knees barren and worn to sore,

Clothed in burlap rags, wrapping loosely legs and torso,

in the vain attempt to confide with the darkness,

Beauty from dirt,

 

Weathered wrists of wry iron stains,

Choked by bruises of the guards,

She sulks in pity, staring into the watery void,

The hole carved by acidic worms,

entreating trails up from Hell,

 

Black spindles split the landscape of barren ash,

Spun of spiders, the red hour's drain bellow,

Whose own venom entrenches in my veins,

Blowing the icy breath of death between the limbs of tree,

Bark turns pale, and fallen leaves to frozen landscape,

Bleak and somber, the hibernating form longs for spring thaw,