2ndwitch: On January passing . . .

Soft spoken words are whispered, floating and whirling on a snow-laden

Wind, howling and murmering, caressing and steel-gripping the
Speaker, and piercing through their skin with skeletal knives.

Promises, muttered reluctantly, are tossed into a whirlpool of

Indecision, where they blend and fracture into a thousand pieces.

There are no sticks and stones, but the razor-edged breath of

An approaching storm can cut and bruise in their stead. And does.

Wintery fingers are caressing slowly the arching spine of despair,
And with frosted ink they underline the soft words, the spoken and

Broken promises. The scythe of the reaper is moving ever closer

And swings to and fro and to and fro and to and fro, a metronome

To measure the very heartbeat of death. The ticking clock paces

Out the passing of time, until the hour when the chime will crow

As did the cock, and another night will be ended, and dawn, silver with

Import, and colder than ice, will herald another cloud spun day.

Ghosts of those who have gone before are returning, and spinning a

Web of gossamer memory, shimmering with unshed tears;

Voices, past voices, singing the insistent concerto of a siren call

To surrender, chorus and interweave their counter-melodies until

The listener cannot bear the pain. Shattered, and screaming, the mind

Casts round for respite, looks to find shelter, protection, but finds only

Another and another and another bell tower, and another and another

And another cacophony of bells that ring out the changes that are time itself.

2ndwitch