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?