|
This sickness wintering
The sun doth delight no longer but has taken his away,
As the nemesis of life revels in the shortness of the day.
Wind sirens have come with the death march fist,
crows follow reluctant spectral mist.
Zephur winds play doleful scale among the wires
as old corn gluttonously eaten from the way clad in frost attire
feed the black crying shadows longing a sun's fire
A lonely pallor of gray is all that can be mustered when light retires the day.
Would that winter would forget her sour note and content with muddled haze.
She will not now nor ever has. The bite and shortness of warm contrasting blaze
that kept her distant for moments coveted, till the hero of light went astray,
gives rise to victory in her icy heart and her less than desirous way..
I wonder how I will live it thru, this wintering of days
Necrotic flesh abides within itself and feasts its fats away
Old dreams are enticed to pacify
Sweet muses, enchantments from afar
And tired I am becoming to run the maze ,
Countless and innumerable spring summer and frosty plague, the fallen
Marching carnage cascading streaming down in the wind
Choosing moreover a rotting tumbling mass grave
who feeds the spring and gives it bone to grind and blood to drink and savor
With all its parade and color. Sacrificing all for new
Giving all old carnage to new born days till it beside itself in age
Doth change its newness again to bound winter's slave.
|
