Poems/Snowmelt

Icicles dangle from the eaves, nature‘s cryogenic daggers, falling like the autumn leaves.

Winter time in crippled stagger, clinching on by frozen thread, unprepared to cease its swagger.

Through the ashen slush I tread, consciousness begins to wander, about the dreamscape in my head.

Of the snowman I now ponder, stoic with a charcoal grin, will he smile for much longer?

Banished like an angel’s sin, muddled puddle of my youth, for he had no soul within.

Mind awakened to the truth, I’m who Father Time bereaves, finding friends like hidden sleuth, then removing my reprieves.

Lone Wolf1990 09:22, February 17, 2012 (UTC)