Fear not the author, but the readers
of this most gruesome atrocity.
Dieing f'llwers and living leaders
fall victim to animosity.
Dark blankets 'strewn in joyous billows,
o'ercast above the weeping willows.
Virgin flakes sleeping without a sound;
none to know a scene half so profound.
From the river, given to the lake
flowing, snowing; ceasing in your wake.
The ice conforming about the rim.
The land of dreams from your good night hymn.
You search high and low, and land afar,
reaching into your chest through the scar
sealing a cave where your heart should be,
grasping and pulling to set it free.
Long lost within the land's collection,
enslaved by thoughts of your perfection;
'daisy mutilated by your hand;
death brought back by popular demand.
Snow now substituted by ancient sand.
Your broken thoughts mean 'end' for the land
whose sole purpose was to bring you joy.
'ven children know Peace is not a toy.
-Varnell
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