The fleshy clumps of snow
Hit like a minor chord.
With the elegance and show
Of the loves I can’t afford.
All matted, they patter and bury the grass.
The third tomb to fall, how many more will pass?
Obscured with a sullen, silent dream’s fright
My breath’s an even cold, melting matter mid-flight.
Metawampe has donned a new solstice crown
And the student’s coats have become gelid gowns.
If only this could be a temporal freeze,
So we could all feel, and create how we please.
With our fingers and minds and the tools of our trade,
And look lachrymose at the future we’ve made.