Wispy trails tell tales of long nights spent
Probing in the deep
Barren bottles scattered on the floor
Skeletons of grief to forget who you are
Remembering what has past
Forgetting to glance afar in the haze
from the gloom of the room where
He would smoke his pipe and stare
Intently at the words on his page
As they poured thoughts
Splashing all about
Who will know when the rooster will crow
Or the wolf howl in lonely tone
An inkling deep inside about the slide
Could have kept him alive
No one lives above the mountain
The highest power of all
A swirling snowflake in the storm
When the angry tempest unleashes all its might
They say he was old, they say he was tired
I say they are all liars
Let it be known that he,
Sharp as the blade the reapers scythe
Lashed out with a cold vice grip
Could have been fate or destiny
Keeping a date with grim
But late in the day, and high on the mountain
I lost my brother to him