The defeated flurry of Winter's stone breath
graces the helmet of a forgotten heart.
The drumroll disappears over the mountain's breast,
the sun frowning on the castle hearth.
A swollen star closes its eyes and falls asleep,
the colored pride shed and torn from the mice.
Love song so long, nay, so deep.
The talk of cold clocks has never been so un-nice.
The playful flames danced long ago,
all open blue eyes drowning with silver tears,
for the outraged cry from here did grow,
sweetly, slyly sinking into slumbering enemy ears.
A simple existance with disgraced, reddened breath,
a wolfish grin under the elephant's horn,
a ghosted memory of maidens and men,
The feathered cape of three kings now torn.
A white deer lifts its hanging head.
From the fore, a sprout of shackled horns.
The timid feet of sandled wine and golden bread
skipping merrily to the lover's four.
Circles drawn by the brown eagle wings,
the eyes of many scouring the earth.
For the broken harp will nevermore sing,
allowing soldiers to forget their worth.