When the Mournful Sky Cries White Rain
When the world succumbs to the kiss of cold
and a numbing gale is a breath away,
on her knees she weeps; for the truth be told,
there will be soft light on the hills today.
Cool clouds begin to form her crown.
Wool winds careen with sovereignty.
Small specks of ivory dive down,
whilst little shining gems fall free.
In a blur, the sun disappears from sight
and vanilla-wisps soar in wintry slews;
like the stippled sheet of a moonlit night,
they will blanket all of the floating blue.
Blind blight to those who trek through hail;
dove-down has never been so fierce.
Enveloped in an iced jewel jail,
the frigid shards of North Pole pierce.
To the grave the blooms and the saplings go;
they retreat with haste from the chilling sleet.
And the terra scorns at the silent snow,
for she knows his work isn't yet complete.
Frost fire falls from a heart in pain...
when the mournful sky cries white rain.
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