The Winter of My Discontent
The gelid wind is a knife, ice to bone
As Demeter decries Persephone's moan
I too shed a tear, crystalline nature
In the pallid winter of my discontent.
Downy flakes fly in my woods, this glacier
melts slowly, apart from everyone ashore
I die a little more each day I bore
Holes, In this winter of my discontent.
No ode to my urn shall abide tragedy
Created in frolic architecture, majesty
Denied grace in art, I cry a little more
In the frigid winter of my discontent.
Copyright © Tim B | Year Posted 2014
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