...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vRYwaJC5FY

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I

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There is moonlight; 

there are shadows;

there is 

slowly falling snow 

drifting over 

tilled ground, 

laying 

a soft, cold blanket 

.

over a delicate

mid-winter night. 

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II

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Somewhere, 

  oil crackles 

in the basin

of an old, beaten lamp.

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As it burns, it throws

warmth, 

color, 

into the confines of a dugout. 

.

Somebody draws their fingernails

across the strings of a guitar. 

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III

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All is quiet, 

faded, 

like a threadbare, distant memory 

that's been woven into a blanket. 

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A booming sound of thunder

that no one can truly hear 

crashes between the recesses 

and in the hollows of their ears.

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None will forget the sound.

And yet somehow

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we all inevitably do. 

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