Snow din

The snow is falling

falling falling

and I wish I had the guts to stop it

stop it and lashing, lashing

at'em with a French double bass bow

from the bottom of my pit.

Record-low

in the tank

in the bank

yet there is snow

falling

in peace peace peace

yet I hate the

coming from their mouth

for it means nothing

nothing nothing

comefroms the stage where actors

aren't actors playing actors but actors

playing playing pretending

being snowflakes on the swaying grass

embracing a bonnie lass

yet it's too late

too late

to dance.

What if we fell like snow?

Snowliness is the worst state of the mind –

shantih shantih shantih where art thee –

“I never meant to hurt them snowflakes, Officer, I swear!”

yet I lashed at'em relentlessly

the bow showed no dent, no wear and tear,

and the drysmeared blood on it most unkind

as it is of the irremovable sort

and the wind, the wind!

comes howling

reaches me there

at the bottom of my cistern

where we take turn

every century or so.

Mines comes now.

Mines comes now.

Mines comes now.

I have forgiven what it was I had to say

to the next reservoir-bound fey.

Perhaps the snowflakes will say.

Look up at the hollow shaft

watch the hollow specks

listen to the hollow voice

yet some would argue nothing's hollow.

How wrong they are. How wrong!

No throng, no raft, no decks, no choice,

but what dreams conceive

but what dreams allow.

For years I mistook die for dream

in we live as we die, alone

seemed to me a better line,

a better scream,

befitting the moans,

the whining,

the tears

we shed.

I was misled

waylaid

by the lure of the snow

damn the snow!

May it burn and drown

in the see o' darkness!

Pack the world in a nice urn

watch it burn, burn, burn

and the flare of the sun

has that effect upon the snow

chars the tea in my glazed flagon

blackens the base bow

ashens my brow

darkens my sweat

“I swear, I swear!”

Be hanged with'em!

Be hanged with'em!

The snowflakes gather

and chant, and dance.

and the world seems more hollow then it ever used to be.

More hollow, more hollow.

Aye, we can fall like snow.

From the floor of my underground tower

I can see but few hours

yet I feel them all, them all,

and sour is the frail

hurt in the small

of his offal.

Fingernails broke yesteryear

trying to dislodge the fray

I failed, I failed

dim is the snow, lightless is the day

they all fell like snow

down a hollow.

The hour is now.