The Voice

The Voice
The voice on the wind

whispers its intent, 

the cold penetrates into the core

the will is broken down

into its finite parts.

It speaks of our mortality,

as the trees bud green,

shoots of green breaking through

the cold, dark earth.

In the stillness a word 

is spoken, through lips

cracked by the sun. 

On its breath, 

the smell of stale wine

give hint to its power 

to offer peace.

Bodies frozen by fear

as a finger probes the bloody mark,

And doubts wash away

at the sound of the voice.

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