O' tiny tree,
wrapped in barbs,
glittering broken,
glass.
Sit atop,
These snowy mounds,
In which dwell blood and bone.
These Earthen mounds,
In which hatred currently,
Sleeps.
O' tiny tree,
Bought with tobacco,
Bought with chocolate,
How Precious,
Lonely,
You will be.
When the clock Strikes,
Twelve.
__________________________________________________________________
First time I've really tried playing with structure of a poem. Quite happy with how this one turned out.
~Shadowquill
