Lost daughter on the wild moor
It’s gone dark too early
January love son hanging from the tree.
The sky is grey with anguish.
Do not offer me a mirror nor break the glass.
Throw salt over your left shoulder to stop the dead from haunting you.
They need to settle into their graves and sleep away their doom.
The grey ghosts look through the window but there was no light.
He couldn’t connect with anyone
The sharp knife has cut the cord
The veil between the worlds is fragile.
Leonard Cohen singing hallelujah
And Suzanne begging.
Was her name taken in vain?
Could anything have stopped her?
Montreal that’s a very big river