Down by the lake of horror - Poem

The chill dead cold water,
Welcomed the dead.

A story yet to be thought of,
As maybe there was never a welcome made.

The wings that took roots in hope,
Drenched to the tip like a fool.

Memories of the dead,
Mix with the soul of the living.

It was but an age of cruelty,
For it looked much of the opposite.

How to count the droplets of rain,
As they trickle down the window.

Leaving but a memory,
One that is fast fading.

Try and hold it from dripping,
Onto the ground,
How can you?
Oh, just how much?

Photo by Manuel Meurisse on Unsplash