There is a dragon within the wind whose bite cuts straight to the trembling bone, and though no wounds remain aft to mend, the bite lingers, still, like seeds deep sown. The dragon seeks with its pallid eye heartbeats by hearth, by fire, those warm lives that flee from it as it roams nearby, its keen unseen teeth like icy knives.
The backcloth sky is but harsh white wool through which the bleak, blank sun often glows cold, far-off, like a corpselight of Yule when the biting air swells up and blows. We are scorned by that distant-drawn sun for yesterday’s oft ungrateful cheer, our Summer arrogance now undone by the Yule dragon’s icicle sneer.
Elder-aged, now, I lay all alone in this Yuletide season of the cold and try to sleep, but I toss and groan, wondering how I became so old. The dragon snorts, then groans, too, and sighs, and licks at me through a frosted crack; will I survive till the dragon dies, just long enough for Spring to come back?
Aris, the god of war, proclaims that our “Freedom” requires blood, and much more— the lives of those to come that will never know how it feels to drive a car or dance at prom, to wow the crowd with their bright star; no, that star now sinks deep into crimson waters, a senseless sunset sleep for our sons and daughters because guns have become the fetish of our faith, the maxim of “Freedom”, so says the ardent naif who writes laws and defends the instruments of War at all costs as he sends more children to Death’s shore by protecting their god, by protecting the gun, lawmakers overawed by a Constitution writ in times so backwards that the writers owned slaves, the glib-loaded black words like splintered, rotten staves for the gunpowder kegs, for the barrels of blood that drain down to the dregs in a rabies-froth flood.
Sanctimonious fools whose brains keep forgetting the cost of frontier rules and the keen bloodletting, bow to your bloody Lord and forsake the piled dead— kids may die by the sword, but it butters your bread.
This Winter passes on without a snow, yet is cold as a corpse drained of its hues, all is either black or brown or sallow; a fell tumescence festers in its views. Snowfall no longer drapes this scabrous land like the white sheet spread with grief and pity, nor is a shroud laid by a loving hand— all is laid bare in Death’s indignity.
Glass jar, your belly clattering with rusty nails, urine, and hair; glass jar, cease the crone’s chattering in the witching hours, cease her ere she drives me mad with her flights, riding me beneath the moon like a steed through dark nights all whilst laughing like a loon; trap her soul in your glass pit and keep her, warden, while I recover from this Fae fit; lift it from me ere I die. Through hearth she sought me betime, yet ’twas my heat she desired, clinging like gooey birdlime as I struggled ‘fore I tired and was confined to my bed, growing ill with chills and sweats, soaken, clammy in the head, my forehead wrinkled with frets. Dreams oft come astride fever, staying in wakeful daylight like thoughts from the Deceiver which tempt and torture and bite until we surrender, thus, and He claims a bit of soul from evils compelled in us and, bit by bit, takes us whole. So was she set in her toil like a raven in the eye of a dead man half in soil, her chattering ever nigh her raspy song of old trees during Autumn, when the wind twirls the leaves, before the freeze that brings Summer to its end. So, please jar, capture this witch— Bellarmine, confine her now! By St. Andrew’s cross, the bitch must be imprisoned somehow!
In such a car wreck as mine you have no say-so, no line to draw between what is now and what will be, no know-how or power will save you then, nor have you say how or when; nothing obeys your dire voice and you truly have no choice, but to accept what’s to come in a state of peace, or numb, or fearing it all, to fear and to scream, though none will hear whom may change what will be next, what comes at the final text. This is total acceptance, this is mortality’s sense. You cannot simply say “No” when it is your time to go.
Aloft, sword and shield, good sirs one and all, we must thus wield for yonder clarion call! Milady needs us, row by row by row, mount our steeds thus, to her fortress, tally ho! She raises her flag, that red banner high, so do not lag, for our good fortune is nigh. Round her fort, good men, be not pale or frail, but guard her when a lone beauteous female is in need of aid, nor falter when wrongs are by her made, but rally in many throngs, for a female rules, beauty being truth, and none but fools would question her aught, forsooth; the more she has raised of her red banners the more unfazed we should be in our manners, for she is a queen over one and all and her soul clean, clear as her ice crystal hall. So rally hie here! Protect her pure soul! And do not fear her castle’s oubliette hole. ‘Twas not her design, nor her need, that pit, so fall in line to form a wall that is fit to protect our love, our lady, devout as stars above fixated through years, throughout, or else as a moat, a pit of squalor o’er which no boat might ford fast to befall her. A White Knight’s duty is never done, quite— Lo! Tis beauty! Let us gallop! Let us fight!