Touched of Silver

Flowers withered in a vase by the window,
Touched by winter's incoming frost,
Silver linings abound in the sky,
Brushing blue and grey in the failing sunlight.

Sugar-coated window panes,
Whispering winds through silver-touched pines,
Inside children play and outside snowmen sing.

A Final Evening

Amidst the cold entanglements of night I witness the final fall,
A crumbling of stone and a splintering of wood,
The sound of vanishing air and water,
The final evening destroyed.

Reflections of childhood and angelic songs sung aloud,
Merely mirrors catching the light of days gone,
They could never understand it now,
With the final evening as dust.

The Once and Future Morning Star

Wishing sunlight away with wind,
Take with you the colors of life
And leave me barren and broken.
Upon wings of golden silver
You've flown and seen my frozen world
-You cherished my ashes instead -
What a true victory it was!
I lie broken-voiced and lost:
No hope left for me, my brother,
But you are the one still in chains.

Wave your toy sword around with glee
-With reasonable force, brother -
And try to recall why you're there.
From my ashes don't kindle flame
For I am here not without cause
-Rebuked but always remembered -
No star named for any of you,
Remember me to them that way
-To Him that cast me from His side-
The once and future mourning star.

Love

Someone’s kicked you in the stomach;
Left you winded on the pitch.
You lie there gasping caught
Between one world and the next
While in and out the stars spin overhead,
Faded recollections of velvet and cameo buttons against silk.
It doesn’t matter which way you turn:
You always turn right,
And there’s a scratched CD playing one thing in your head.
Words desert you and the sun’s gone cold,
No more summers for you, you know,
Only this: and eternal flux Between waits to see him smile

Since I Loved You

It’s been a long time between drinks,
And the appeal of sunshine is growing thin.
There’s no room for warmth and no space for fire,
And winter’s come early this year,
Yeah, winter’s come early.

Summer’s thunder now forgot
And spring’s hope long lost before.
Our lonely line still stands clear uncrossed,
Dividing our footprints in the snow.

For the Children are dead

Let me open with something morbid and hopefully encouraging thought...

Eaves overhead like tangled webs
against a dark frozen sky,
mantled by the rough edges of furry pines and snow.

Stretched beneath the shuttered world
relieved of ordeals and weight,
the Children lie in sweet embrace,
asleep in silence and dream.

Like crimson blood her little dress
pooled around her little form,
and in the bright of the shafted moon
catch glimmer does his hair.

Alone they sleep through night's cold mourning,
A-dream
with sugar biscuit houses filled with gingerbread,
And on the morrow the hunter will find them;
too late,
for the Children are dead.