Waiting for the winter snows in summer I would be a fool
Yet more foolish he that thinks that Time's hand heals;
Words once spoken have faded not at all - oblivion is cruel,
Denying entrance to the weeping guests I send. It feels
As though the pikes are pointed in, formations up at arms
against the father-land! Conspiracy? I bid the traitor stand
Confess, and die together with his lies and charms:
"Time will surcease bring." - put trust in that when wisemen build on sand!
I spurn despair, but doubts within me rise. What is the cure
For death of love? Fetch out black velvet and a sombre priest
fashion our coffin from eternity; fill with memories, obscure
and lithe alike. Call in mourners. Wail loud for love deceased.
After all depart from covered grave
& the eulogy's been said,
perhaps, perhaps it's done?
I'll go home, clean house,
and burn
that
ice-
cold
bed.
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