The End of Winter
What a hymn,
you leave me,
as warmth
becomes the chills,
You leave me,
All of this was to die,
standardized,
a yellow flame
searing red
becomes blue.
Cold-ish ash,
fingers turn brittle,
crumbling to
blood- soaked
smokey cash.
Our fingers
corrupted
through
the
exchange of
history,
paper,
coins,
built on violence.
I fought
dragons
for treasures,
I did my best
to
tip toe
to the other side
of rainbows,
truth is,
the journey
is wealth
folded Cards,
scattered dice,
fingers pointed...
Alas,
the beauty of
grace,
the divine thoughts of
silk and lace,
bleeden
if inter-weavened,
bloody grips
who seeks the price....
Family,
scolded,
how the cold
inflicts sores
through
entirety
of winter.
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