Dying embers in the fire,

            sighing voices from gray mists,

carry thoughts upon my pillow,

            'neath the tapping of the willows.

Tendrils pressed against the pane,

             black and slivery they make.

such a dark and eerie lace,

             masking pain upon my face.

As I drift in reverie,

             from this dream, I cannot wake,

scratching fingers on the glass,

             trapped forever in my past.