“I loath the quiet hush of winter, the deafening din of snowflake on leaf. The only other sound to be heard being a lonesome squirrels climb. ’twas here that I buried you; beneath the willow where the wind holds your insipid memory. Buried. Unknown and forgotten to all. Yet my visitations are scheduled and often. I hold no love, only random pieces of my own fate. Bless you, and forever reside in hell.”
ME…
Brian Kelly Irons 