Winter's Rest

a poem

Trebled echoes winter’s most beloved rest,

whose bosom comforts upon my country,

in her cool and chaste refrain of peace born,

ever skyward the utterance victory won.


I am all colors, angry and deadly,

unfinished, untold, unspoken and forlorn.

A broken cry from within the stone well,

cradled in the bowels of Eden’s lush.


Never cry, little one, don’t breathe easy,

the air that surrounds your innocence found,

ripe upon your entering this world not yours,

or you will lose the nature of your right.


Never see the blinding tangles of life,

flashing materials superficial,

glances, only momentary huddles,

promising faded hues and plates of salt.


I am less worm, wrinkled without mend,

and bruised history ringed in segments short,

but more refined in trails moistened slithers,

more … less a worm than more a man walking.


And there, a decaying giant burns deeply,

scarring memories once beautiful.

His teeth yellowed, gritting with sweat salty,

there, meeting my lips, his stubbled chin.


Knuckles cold and winter hardened, nails crusted,

into my neck with fists burrowed into my ribs,

blood rushing into my head, the pendulum buckle,

grating against my teeth with his salty taste.


Then fading, I wish for simple things arising,

from subtle deeds, whispers telling such beauty,

far away, a reflecting sun on frost-heavy grass,

melting at the ease of my breath on a winter’s rest.      

The End

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