Tell me a line is never good enough,
For mouths to feed
All whom rob from rich to give to poor,
I am your whore,
Waiting as soft sorrows cry in pain
For the last couplings of daylight
And only then I rise again.

Deceitful second coming,
The dew of forethought, crystal afterthought.
O three penny opera confessions,
I send my condolences.
Driving snow of an impromptu meeting,
disintegrating you slowly,
touching the stubble of old youth.

Stark intruder of the psyche, grey in its all-knowing:
Time had hung to dry on a broad lawn of no visitors.
Groomed with the hood ornaments
of aftermath memory
For all to see I am your whore, no more.
Here, frozen in this snowglobe prism
Motionless as nothingness

Calls the unsuspecting for its usual supper
Of paramour famines sans condiments.
Responde at your own risk sil vous plais.
For we must drink of our windworn palms
With the invitation of a stranger,
Eat deeply of inward skins.
Forget as we row back now.

Past the soup of lethe and artificial snow,
Failing to read the simple runes of song.
The tortured alphabets of broken promises,
This desert calm of the dearly departed.
As your name is summoned
Elsewhere in seasonal driftings,
Not there, though never here.