ichor runs thick with rust;
a skewed brown light from a speckled star:
a fuscous dusk; a pallor;
a dirty patch of former flowers.
all things —ephemeral— must pass,
and beautiful as birthing is, it’s far too painful to sustain,
suspiring in regret, and rising unattained,
and bare to debile ray;
curled as if a desp’rate hand
in twilight of its day.
winter is an idol that blesses us with snow
plagued with ice and pains of death from darkness, far below.
groans from blackened laketops, white caps of fearsome foam,
like semen crested aqueous upon a crashing womb.
darkness is a demigod, that blights our shattered home,
wet with rain and pains of birth, from springtime, so it goes.
behold! they come, in bright parade, to see it done:
dancing upwards through the lips of earth —a tongue—
and find themselves a season late: cast in freezing sun.