Old Trench Coat

Floating in the clearing water

Sloshing in its folds

The river holds it up

To show its stains of sin

Cloth holds too much sorrow

No one man should swallow

Once had rested

Apon the shoulders of a long past friend

Such confused feelings does it ignite

In thy hands does the heart loose light

A melancholy omen does it give

To Days that sing of a Hunter’s Pyre

In this Ravine does it come to thee

The last of the black

Falling from the threads

Hold it close oh wounded soul

Your pain will only grow.

Remember times of clarity

when days and nights were not filled

with a dark sludge

to match the color growing in your soul