A poem By: Metalhead Sullen The weight of winter sits on my shoulders like the ice from a frigid storm sits on the boughs of the trees, weighing them down The clouds that never seem to break are forever rolling by overhead. They cover the suns golden rays with layer after layer of dark, gloomy, oppression The damp creeps into my bones from the constant pounding of winters gale at every step I take. The winds are like knives, slicing their way into ones soul Tis the season of sullen As the hours, days, and weeks pass, alone, away from winters chill in my lair, I feel a burning from within. The burning is but a small twinkling of fire from within, but, nonetheless, the wintery season still abodes. Tis the season of sullen Soon, very soon, Sol will make his grand appearance once again. The creatures of this world will leave their wintery nest Sullen will soon be gone A poem By: Metalhead The end. P.S. Then it'll be June and I'm gonna come to Road Atlanta and kick the shit out of everyones asses there and take home all the trophies on a BONE STOCK FZR400. Suck it.