I admire the sweat on your brow,
beads on your lip, as we
whoosh into wind-blown morning.
The sun is burning as the snow is falling.
J. Frost takes a haughty bow.
I am shunning all who plow, shovel
and worry about this frozen mass:
a zombie winter killed and refusing to pass.

The mirror does not agree
with inside thoughts of
youthful me as I frown at
crags anew.
It’s still me next to you
and the years are eager to bait
my ire like
wayward dogs.

A funeral pyre awaits
this aging self
birthed and stoned with amethyst.
Intriguing visage once newly kissed,
by Father Time mauled,
a latent bris.
The cut is long, jagged and deep.

Not even the finest sauterne
could syrup sweet tenfold tears of
salt and lime.

I thrash through tortured visions:
my life - a rhinoceros skin grafted to
screaming lamb.
White fleece thrown to flock
like hand hack-sawed from
mousified clock as berserker gray
wages bedlam and war.

I stoop to pray
for one more day behind
the door.

01/01/2011

Author's Note: minor rewrite of an old piece

Posted on 01/01/2011
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