A flitter through the window
The wind is getting cold
And the air is full of snow that draws designs upon the earth
I'll fill another bowl
And hope the embers in the coals will turn displeasure into mirth
I'll fill another bowl and lay to rest my weary soul for dawn's rebirth

The door is never closed
And the subtle scent of rose
That lingers only on your clothes is ever felt upon the chill
A never-warming prose
That wafts distinctly on my nose and gives presence to you still
An ever-warning prose to tell the reader of the woes from drink as
strong as feeling's will

Upon the night air's weave
Are blazoned elements of grief
And in between each scribbled leaf there lies an avatar of hope
Within the tempered heat that slides beneath the river's sheets
Therein lies the beat in bed with desperation's rope
Down beneath the frigid sleet
In the cavern down beneath
The deadly elements that freeze the very ether of your soul

Far upon the distant moon
That in the canopy now looms
The warmth to save from certain doom myself and others in the rough
The healing heat within a tomb of certain death without a boon
Pray'r or chance to cross the gloom that hides the favored nostrum touch
The healing heat within a tomb of hollow promises and soon
All of my illness is exhumed and dried and torched back into dust

Either fatal fury rising
Or like morbid sympathizing
With oneself leaves one surmising that their natures are the same
As the two are synchronizing and the fire cauterizing
In effect desensitizing us against the savage flame
Leaves us only eyeing
And with feeble grasps still trying
Clinging to the far horizon despite one's own pride and shame
In fact we are left clinging from our pride within our shame

And still in bleakest winter, darkest our, deepest tincture
Still our mind seeks out a picture of the panacea's form
Deep within the coils within, within the inner turmoil's din
Beneath the roiling seas of gin and blood there lies a gorging worm

Feeding ever from our hunger, from our wrinkles growing younger
Finding weariness in slumber, ever deepening the hole
Impatient fools to scribe a number to the faculties of wonder
Foolish demons dancing under all the pleasures of the world
Shallow demons dancing under, drowning neath the shallow mire
Forever trapped beneath thunder of ambition's fiery hold

Never waiting for her form
Ever trailing like a swarm
With bent and broken oaths we've sworn we tail the walking woman's path
Always drinking of her warmth
We leave her clothed in naught but torn and ragged refuse of the raping
in our wrath
Always seeking of her warmth
We leave her naked and misformed and broken, bleeding from the ravagings
at last

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Ero, in the year 371 AF.