something about the ancient poetry
of the classic age
something calls to mind an isolated cemetary
brittle sparks of snow crystallized over the surface
cheek-chapping cold cones breath in visible steam
a lone raven looks over the lost yet
meticulously landscaped disaster.
this is lost on our pallets of now, and always have been.
even Percy Shelly drew these images of beauty and luster
as relics of a past, traditions of wordsmiths of fantasy of another age
that never existed.