In the bleak December cold,
when the lights of Christmas have gone out,
a frozen emptiness gathers - poised above the lost and alone.
It seeps into the hearts of those who have taken vows
To the Holy Order of the Forsaken.
Witness the new "Holy Innocents" whose spirits walk the night.
Blithe spirits, who gave till their essence became too transparent.
Their proffered cups - now too airy to fill,
they cry into the wind for substantiality.
They walk towards the verge of the world and the old year turning.
Shall they plod on - or silently, simply, step off the edge?
My friends, - there is no life, where there is no love.
Mar 25, 2011
Mar 25, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
In the bleak December cold,
when the lights of Christmas have gone out,
a frozen emptiness gathers - poised above the lost and alone.
It seeps into the hearts of those who have taken vows
To the Holy Order of the Forsaken.
Witness the new "Holy Innocents" whose spirits walk the night.
Blithe spirits, who gave till their essence became too transparent.
Their proffered cups - now too airy to fill,
they cry into the wind for substantiality.
They walk towards the verge of the world and the old year turning.
Shall they plod on - or silently, simply, step off the edge?
My friends, - there is no life, where there is no love.
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