The Winter Of Discontent

The violin strings, the poet's ink
Deep inside the winter of discontent,
lies the rueful surrender
to which she falls again.

Sweetly the words made silence.
The dark hair fell on her chest warming the cold heart.

Bliss, found in every word he said.
Ignorance found it's depth
While the hand stayed fused from the truth
Reaching out tied with the red.

The first day of love,
can never come back,
it might bring back the memories of silence.
Faith in the hands of another soul
mending it to shape it, to never let it go.

Discreetly, the eyes whispered violence.
Inside the mind, a turbulence fending off the love.

Blame, a violent lie to choose
as your trying whisper a truce.
Yet the emptiness always caves
in the me , and in the you.

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Written by Wake