Winter is here. Saturn strokes his beard, and the sages retreat into their caves to ponder upon the mysteries of death. The crows outside enliven the deafening silence, yet fall quiet with the same swiftness they took to their cawing.
In the cold breast of the sickle bearer, the dim grey world evokes an eldritch romance which human words stumble and fail to tongue. But buried in promising old tomes, I find the next stage for my atrocious play – a beauty which forlorn, a wisdom which is dreaded.
Listen to the imperious whisper forlorn,
crawling out the caskets of human ways age-worn.
Green lanthorns and ghost night
breathe out the briny breeze of archaic shores.
And in this Yuletide of watchful note,
curious feet walk in between
with itch, with love,
for the longing idyllic horror
of secrets most immemorial
and brilliant hope.
I walk the warmth-lit meadows of life at a time
just to abide under the ghostly shine of your charm.
Darkened clouds robbed you from me tonight
as I curled up in the arms of winter unabashed.
I shall bathe in the January rain of your wake
and purify my being from the illusion of the light.
You shall still enact the verity of the stars
and lull the thorn in sight,
that beauty be manifest through the veins of soul delight.
Embrace me and intone the rite of sprite
in spite of the graveyard upon which your face is cast.
I’ll dance amidst the rings of silvery might
if you face and remind me of that which came to pass.
Venture into the hidden paths, my distant confidant.
Your opposite child grins upon the solar crown of midnight.