The Snowman

By what slender issue-- a quiver
of solace takes beauty deeper
unto the lair of sleep; layered
down beneath the soil and earth
and of the stones, partaken
of so many of other dreams

Where these hounds of night
and shadow will hunt, among
the lord of this winter's keep--
like the hollow growl of
child's stomach, bloated
empty and full, fallen between
thin and frail finger tips like
one final prayer--
the unknown image
of an god spills...
frozen and soft upon
the air-- its face unique
and yet its flurried spirit fair
common

As what laughter only the heart
can create, once upon a maiden spring...
if ever we were able to find it again,
somewhere back in time--
would it always end the same?
To wonder...

Should any spirit ever be so sweet and
purely innocent, never lent toward
any such bitterness. For this life sometimes
seems such a hostile ward-- an old house
of such grim artifact as an empty cradle
and these many ghosts of memoria

This is how it could have been,
this was how it should have been--
And yes, silent for now,
of how it would have been

By what slender issue-- a quiver
of solace takes beauty deeper
unto the lair of sleep; layered
down beneath the soil and earth
and of the stones, partaken
of so many of other dreams

From Hell's release, a fresh draught of
hell-borne spirit-- for only a moment, to peer
through a child's eye frozen to memory,
that might never see anything beyond
its first taste of death--
lost forever within an old house
of such grim artifact as an empty cradle
and these many ghosts of memoria

Spit back down upon the earth--
that bile and blood stir'n within
the mud created such a terrible black magick

He watches the children there
with finger-less mitton hands,
shaping what they call a man from
the snow-- and each had lent to
it from their own character,
something of their own image...

He watched, as it had become as
complete as it would ever be that
they began to attack it with sticks,
hands and feet-- like an angry mob,
set upon their own creation

And they laughed as he began
to walk again, hidden deeper within
the myriad layers of cloth--
each layer, a seeming new age
that would be covered by the
next

By what slender issue-- a quiver
of solace takes beauty deeper
unto the lair of sleep; layered
down beneath the soil and earth
and of the stones, partaken
of so many of other dreams

As he tries to make sense of why
he is here, this season again;
Where these hounds of night
and shadow will hunt, among
the lord of this winter's keep--

Like the hollow growl of
child's stomach, bloated
empty and full, fallen between
thin and frail finger tips like
one final prayer--
the unknown image
of an god spills...
frozen and soft upon
the air-- its face unique
and yet its flurried spirit fair
common

As what laughter only the heart
can create, once upon a maiden spring...
if ever he were ever able to find it again,
somewhere back in time--
would it always end the same?

Peace,
Po