The Trees in Gothic Dark

The twisting branches bare as bone,
The trees in Gothic dark,
The wind in angry temper blown,
Against the casing bark.

The ghostly drip of silver tears,
Upon the branch and leaf,
The moon’s sad eye awash with fears—
In paroxysmal grief.

The broken hearts of mortal men,
Lie scattered everywhere,
The curse is only getting worse,
With pain beyond compare.

The moon cannot avert her face—
A witness standing true,
The realm of man in dark disgrace,
Our hope in Christ run through.

The night in storming bitterness,
Emotions raw and spent,
The distant stars in wan caress,
Through Satan’s sprawling tent.

The earth in horror, poised for war,
The crows in raucous chant,
A fate we hate and now deplore,
Where once exuberant.

The steely scythe of death swings free,
And undercuts our love,
Though holy men would bow the knee,
And plead with God above.

Our spiral twist into the night,
Where angels fear to tread,
The twelve year old I saw so bright—
In pieces lying dead.

Rage on ye endless winds of wrath,
We tried, and tried again,
Bereft of hope in leaden sloth,
We sink to Satan’s den…

ADL