Shreds: “Snow”

Flies of butter and unsteady gut,
No more the chill of this December I feel,
Hazy with smoke and Saint-John’s Wort,
No more the absence of some present real.

Thou taught’st me to converse ‘n silence cold,
The cold of winter, now ageless within me,
That blends elderflower and absinthe bold
With the intellectual sloth of coffee.

I dwell bent o’er the scent of ink’s ghost,
Now faded ‘midst apologiae o’ never,
Repeating ‘em in cloisters, pacing lost
‘Mongst puddles of frivolities and endeavor.

For grown I ain’t been yet always only aged
In a carousel of lies and winding halls,
In a house where answers have been caged,
And all is left to vultures’ beaks and claws.

Thus, I watch the snow that knows me not,
From the cage of doubts thou art aware,
Feigning wellness ‘nother fleeting slot,
Feigning a heart in stand-by’s care.