Ashen Snow of A Pauper's Winter

It creeps up my spine and slithers

Around my throat

With the vengeance of a man starved and left

To tremble in the cold,

Pauper's winter of the East.

There is no jab so subtle as the injection

Of righteousness.

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Buzzing whispers rattle inside the hallowed,

Hollowed cavern of bone

Where a thinking, living, dreaming brain

Once slept; where now emptiness haunts my nights

Drawn long by the freezing seclusion

Of failure and uncertainty.

Who am I to love? Who am I to trust

When the world has lost its eyes?

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The world has lost its eyes!

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They've been plucked from its head and squashed

Like undercooked meat between the fat fingers

Of the elite crippling themselves with poison.

The world has lost its tongue

To the current of disinformation and rampant,

Abhorrent hatred spurred on by insanity

And spurned by men with loud voices, strong hearts,

And empty gun barrels.

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I am stuck between the easy, melodic guitar solos

Of a free and wonderful west

Getting high on human rights and rocket launches to the stars,

And the ugly disparity of the weakness of fearing

The death of humanity.

The death of love.

The death of the depth of life, not solely a heartbeat of flesh

But the heartbeat of our similarities

Because I have lost the plot.

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I do not know where the world has gone,

The one with bright eyes, separated from the natural order

Of animals and plants who go about their business

With easy ignorance and gentle resilience.

No, I wonder where the world of readers and dreamers,

Hippies and dancers, musicians and writers have gone.

Because it is not here,

Not in the heart of a pauper's winter.

Not underneath the feet of ashen snow.

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Silver Serpent Books

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