Cold burns the beauty from the scape
and buries the breath of God;
still waters collect death yet still thrive wild.

You sit there,
mountain basin as your chair,
picturesque—a wilted flower in your hair.

Nineteen burned away
like deadwood from an ancient grove,
still partly due to the paternity of your tyrant
and the benevolence of your father.

I can only admire for so long, before
I cannot bare desistance from your glow,
the heat from the center of your being, the cold
from the ice-capped genius of your conscious.

Tomorrow seems as a promise and so it may be true,
the opportunity to begin anew and labor on
the next step forward in tragic existence, leading beyond
to tragic finality; heavy breath and pounding heart,
awakened to foresight, a gift from the woeful ****
of knowledge learned to the entropy of physiology—
within a mote of hope reaps meaning from ontology.

As once the Earth, chaotic and unfeigned
tamed thus through speech of blossomed order,
gave rise to rival ebb and flow; yin and yang
unbeknownst, pervade each other's border.

And thou resist this myth of sagacity,
yet act the role of honest ancient heroes
to refrain thy rest from saltwater depths,
quelling cowards, liars, and unwise youth,
punished in life and thereafter, still—
cold burns not the beauty of the truth.