This feeling is
No longer tradable
With rigor mortis
In the cartilage of
Tiny-spider-toes
All-patient-pink.

And that beguiling notion,
Wearing an anthem
From Tartarus--

Evolves us as readers-
As we touch the bark and know--
It's the snow that tells us we're cold.
Spreading norn's with sheathe-less
Silence crafting cobble-stone antics,


Through visceral attics
And cankering taste-buds.