Dreaming In My Snowdrift Tomb
I have slumped bereft of mettle,
On the ice and silent snow,
In dejection, spent I settle,
In my torpor dreaming slow.
Russet leaves in scattered colour,
Set against the snowy sheen,
All my ghost downcast in dolour,
In a wilderness pristine.
Purple clouds marauding darkly,
Spread portentous thick, like smoke,
Trees all silhouetted starkly,
As I dream within my cloak.
Water mirrors, orange tinted,
Shining up to pastel skies,
Night’s expression newly minted,
As the wind speaks lullabies.
In my bag, my trinkets gathered,
With some pickled meats and bread,
Canvas now in snow drops lathered,
I’m as death — to dreaming fled.
Mark, although I tarry dumbly,
I perceive the crows that fly,
Through my blindness, lying numbly,
In my dreams their lowly cry.
In the shadows, pain’s purgation,
By resplendent dreams I’m free,
Otherworldly ministration,
Out to Eldritch gods I flee…
adamdaniel 