Roots

Piece from small collection of Scottish witch poetry I'm creating for my masters.

Dark veins splay across the milky sky, full
Of black ink blood and dust
That do not mix.
Spindled bones break through the surface, poking
At many hardened souls
That do not wear.
Iced tears pierce the flesh of tired limbs, held
Still by calloused fingers
That do not shift.
Vulgar winds beat upon the back, whistling
Through aged cracks and torn holes
That do not close.
Forlorn howls climb over lasting mist, long
Call to those left waiting
That do not hear.
Endless shadow casts darkness on rock, aged
Beyond measure by years
That do not cease.