In the chill of Winter's elegy, I hark back to the
softer onset of Summer. Your mouth was smoother than oil;
your words were the sluice for bloody pastimes.
The sun may one day fill through the cracks of mortar.
When deep into the death, our feet reaching for hell,
we found ourselves severed and burbling goodbye...
But sooner or later, my love, even unyielding stone
will face the press of time.
Perhaps you can forget what happened,
when you commit memories to graves in the mind.
I can't.
Like a spirit tethered to regret, I wander
restless in Death's halls; and your voice is salt
tearing the skin from my bones. Until
the hither of your soul to replete my beating chest,
in the final hour of my darkness,
my shadow has not a face.
I am never slaked by the tune of Winter, just cold.
Pray the return of that summer, where the sun
will one day fill through the cracks of mortar.
That it will illuminate every treaded ash
and our fire can once again scream like music.