The Young Night

The street has a look

Like Burnt wood

The moon in exile

Looking for a smile in a cracking tile

Love comes by the Rain

A pale sky, fragile

Ripped to the Bone

A white Tone

A priest in the sweet war of Life

now in the exile of the night

It is as black as the fight

More black as squeezed eyes have ever seen

But the ground seems more Green

And the ash on the ground has holes through the coals

It Crashes

Stars are made out of ashes

Thrown to the sky

Trying to electrify

A black phantom of Smoky Stars

Above the scars

Watching the birds

As the Season turns

And voices are waiting for the sun to come

To take a seat

But she is not coming althrough it developed

I guess she is now freed

But the presence would still feel the same

Like the picture in a Frame

A curtain of Rain

Behind it a Light

Heaps of angles on the side

The tv shows a white Bride

Rain is like a Hammer of movement

Like an amusement

Towards life

A sweet compromise

If there is no Rain it's quite and profane

It's quite but not as a satisfaction

More like a distraction

A distraction to Life

Held like a Knife to a feather

Everything is still the same

Like a Memory which lasts forever

The dark fading in and leaving it's dust

Some might develope a crust

It's still the same althrough the sun didn't remain

It starts to Rain

I guess it's keeping everything quite sane

And together, lasting forever

Soon the first snow will fall

Over the Street and the trees so tall

And the moon is starting to stand

To the Loom of the Land

A warm white shadow,

Left the Light on in the Hallway

As it gets dark in the room in which grim flowers bloom.

A strong force which is good

Held within a gesture so small

wonderful

And than it's overall

It smells like burnt wood

It's colorful