WINTERS PAST
It snows.
The pallidity drifts
Creeping silently
Over ragged stone
To paint
The edges of my windows
With images
I can no longer abide,
And for which
I can no longer atone.
A life measured in winters past
And faces.
So many faces,
A startling whirlwind of warm embraces,
Nestled within the endless chances of
Complete rebirth.
Vibrant hands knocked
Upon my door
To be greeted with a smile that would,
In this late season,
Shatter my fragile maw.
The dust
Would carry their laughter,
Feint memories echo through
This barren hall,
And all is dust now.
White dust,
Resting upon
Lost springtide’s pall.
A treacherous path so few care to traverse
Dry bones a barrier,
Dry minds a curse.
Forgotten,
A hollow chested heart beats,
Bared.
Its pulse
Little more
Than a forgotten chime.
And still it snows,
Is this my time?