| Our Wintered Way Through Evening, and Burning Bushes Along It |
[ 02 / 11 / 2009 | 18 / 45 ] |
(Where only the evergreens whiten...)
Winterflaked ashes heighten
in towers of blizzard.
Silhouettes unseal an outline.
Darkness, like an absence of faces,
pours from the opened home;
it seeps through shattered pine
and flows the fractured maple.
Perhaps it is the essence senescent,
dreamculled from the sleepers,
it soaks upon this road
in weather-born excess.
Or perhaps the great Anti-Life
learns to paint with a vengeance,
to run an icicle down the gargoyle's eye.
For properly speaking,
though no one can confront himself in toto,
I see your falling sky, gone gods,
as in a smoke-filled dream of ancient statues burning,
soundlessly, down to the ground.
(... and never the everwhite's green.)Roger Zelazny |
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