A Cold, Grey.... Poem by D.A. Woods

A cold, grey mist rolls over the hills,
clings to me for dear life,
and of 'o me it distills,
no wet skin for my day of misery ahead, my increasing rife.

The rain hits the granite, makes it look so moody and cold,
puddles gather in rain drops,
better days lie a head in my new mould,
primal screams will be heard from the hilltops.

The pavemnets are nothing new - still filled with regeret,
with every step o'er them,
feet submerged still duet,
throught the a.m. until the p.m.

The rains have hailed down and claimed the land,
no one moves, stuck in it's sound,
the dirt dissolves away for another day unmanned,
with the North East winds turning stormbound.

The Sun still hides from me in the west.