bones

At last true Winter sets in.

the end of the world

or something more Eternal

crushed beneath the soles of a fine line

called surrender.

walk the taut-pulled wire with

your eyes, both of them,

to the quiet fury of the moon

beneath the sun, often forgotten

her begrudged magic whispers of 

the reasons which you brand 

nonexistent.

destruction is simply but another

artwork, alive, 

the prize of Love

Love, you need not spit on

nor understand the shadows of 

Surrender to the death,

the purity of emptiness 

the knowing that we are all cages

housing the light 

of Nothing, everything 

rolled up in bags of bones.

there is no closure, here, in the marrow

suck out the crystallized cells,

tongue and teeth no pity,

feed on the essence of bereavement and

warm the skeleton that dances and cries so boldly

if only you'll allow it 

the bliss of Winter.