be it a rose of winter compares

a dew drop tear on the first open eye,

I still dream of ghosts walking the towns,

I am there with them on rich hunting ground

hindsight retraces all we should’ve been,

and still we are waiting, mute to a dream

my hope ponders spirit, in a world left to die,

confide, we do in each other,

tonight we ride alone

all that thrives has lost it’s colour

and life it dries in sepia tone.