Finality of a wistful last glimpse;
finality of one last reflection.
No one knows just where and when,
winter will, will itself upon the wandering meek---
Mindful of the wraiths that wish to walk,
hand in hand with body once again,
whether the weather will grind stone to sand,
into a wake of glittering wind;
into a wake of snow---
Hand in hand with body once again.
Willfully into the surrender---
Cold whisks the air away,
while stealing life---
Sycamore like skin, cracking grey and white.
When the absent warmth warps all into the pale,
all into the whimpering Wight.
Walk into the surrender,
where the wretched still stand,
wishing for adoration much like myth does to man.