and of this morning none can say what night monsters passed this way to leave their tracks in frozen breath harbingers of cruelest death to those who once knew mothers care a fire, a hearth, an easy chair now severed from the wider hold discarded, to the winter’s cold but of this dead morning one can say we all of us had parts to play.
what sweet seasons these were in my youth that sparked all promised dawns under the sun and held no cynicism above the truths which spring denies until the winter comes for all the cold days held in my marked years have withered absolutes as does the frost in killing roses with the dew’s first tears until the blooms of our beliefs are lost.
she was stone white marble skin carved by a god driven mad by a million dreams of her beauty and his obsession to make her his. He captured the wind to give her breath but as her breast rose the stone shattered broke into dust and the god’s dream came no more.
he collected keys the locks for which had long been closed, never again to be opened and he jingle-jangled when he approached as if to signal the secrets to which he was party and to hint at those stories only he would ever know.
there is no more inspiration here the manuscripts have burned away a million beautiful words to illuminate but just a line set in cold stone above the door the stained portico extols conceit Dominus Illuminatio