17 Jan Snow-blight
Posted at 14:26h
in Poems
What foul and miserable oil fuels the dark?
Which creeping thing could blight the snow?
What refection makes hunger from contentment?
Whence does the fruit of privation grow?
Men destroy the things they love the most,
Plod a course to vanish – themselves, alone;
Nothings crafted turn to what nothings been,
As snow turns water, as statues turn stone.