creative

Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
Homeward into the howling woods, although
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
That only you and I can know. Les deux
For any part of them we can make out
That only you and I can know. Les deux
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
Are muffled into silence that refuses
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Seized from creation by nonentity,