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You Were But A Ghost In My Arms
(Agalloch) Like snowfall, you cry a silent storm
Your tears paint rivers on this oaken wall. . .
Amber nectar, misery ichor
. . .cascading in streams of hallowed form
For each stain, a forsaken shadow You are the lugubrious spirit
Etched in the oak of wonder
You are the sullen voice and silent storm Each night I lay
Awakened by her shivering silent voice
From the shapes in the corridor walls.
It pierces the solitude like that of a distant scream
In the pitch-black forest of my delusion. . .