The Ghost`s Dreams

Distant echoes of liberty, now lost,
heard `tween the trees that stand ridden with frost.
Spoken by wind, do they stir what is left;
November`s forests, of leaves stand bereft.

Beneath the ice of a world, once sublime,
flow still rivers that transcend even time.
Meandering like a snake ere the kill,
silent and deadly, in the tameless chill.

The Silence whispers of what will unfurl:
Pale Silhouettes at the end of the world.
Towering above the fields of the earth;
Tombstones absolving the dreams of rebirth.

Such are the dreams that I sadly name mine,
that darkness shall hold, and ever confine.