weaver in.

Hands cradle
upon blackest fur ,
No solitude doth forth bring,
Golden blonde locks of hair
flowers weaver in,
The scent of death lingering,
Upon wings
tarnished holes,
A fragile new awakening,
But countless hours
no soul,
Standing within a moment,
Trying to find thy role,
Lost in the surrounding's,
Upon death had took her toll.