Wednesday, September 14, 2011

A Beard White With Eld

The caesars wan come forth to peddle luck
They promise things that surely cannot be
They tread upon fresh boards laid through our muck
And supper slippered with our absentee

Their words are dripping treacle for the child
While mothers beat the rocks against the glue
An oven hidden waits for the beguiled
Their harpies stand to claim the residue

In ashes, ashes all comes tumbling down
The babies murmur, turn a closing gyre
The nursery a sad and ghostly town
Just dogs to lift a leg upon the pyre

The dogs lie down to slumber in the snow
The sled is stuck with miles still left to go


julie said...

It is like taking a step, this way or that, and suddenly finding oneself in someone else's dream for just the merest of moments, only long enough to sense the disquiet. Then, a step toward the house where the children gaze out (or is that in? Those shingles could be on either side of the wall...), and suddenly the concrete reasserts itself, yet only half as much as ever before.

Which is all to say, thank you, sir, may I have another?

Matt said...

I rather prefer "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" without this 1930's flavor. Visions of sugarplums? No, my child, those are harbingers.