a cold wind blows
a brooding omen
to the hearts of the people
you turn your face to the
old yellow moon
casting aside your Creator
in favor of things
mortal and unlasting.
you've fallen like
a withered apple
from the tree in the orchard
lying on the ground
unwilling to have Him
pick you up...
to become His treasure.
instead you go about
letting the rain
dim your sunlight
letting the clouds
darken your mind
a cold wind blows
howling through the trees
clouds cover
the old yellow moon
that you turn your face to
casting aside your Creator