Frozen
I
Ghost-like figures are here tonight, dancing
through a softening mist, swirling, twirling;
silently, beneath the silvery moon.
Glistening stars shine, on a blanket of
velvet, illuminating the particles
of dust, circling within the hazy
clouds of the mystery formations.
Like figures descending from a dream.
Each figure, shining, for a fragment of
time, as the moonlight captures them, dancing.
At the bottom of my garden they spin,
beneath the midnight sky, on this soothing,
silent night. Rejuvenated Romeos,
and their virginal Juliets, consumed
in this passionate, fiery art of romance.
I watch. A non-exquisite third-party,
caught up in their charms of graceful passions.
II
But shhh! Listen; tick tock, tick tock. O, the
haughty catalyst of fate! Condemning,
the now lost language of its elegance.
Soon rain freezes, to form drops of snow, but
the mesmerizing music dies with its touch.
And as the flakes fall from the heavens above,
they bury the tree's branches, beneath powdered
tinsel, in a pretty and charming manna.
Each ghost-like memory spins to a change, in
the moon's weeping rays. It's failing light, dusking
still, as it slowly shadows the garden.
Now winter's pixies emerge from the memories,
with a bluish tinge to their fair skins, and
their wings like sheets of frosted glass.
Troubled waters; long since gone cold - frozen.
III
And each one hails their immoral prince, the
mystifying creation of his licentious allies.
Who wait patiently for the icy form - his
intensified touch, cast by a wave
of his gleaming, magical Septa.
And so, the illusory fairies skate swiftly
over the sleeping flower beds, with a
more sinister purpose in mind. Followed
closely by the crackling trail of solidifying ice.
Silently, it sneaks over the unsuspecting
blades of emerald grass, to indoctrinate
the innocent blossom of youthful buds.
A crystallised prison - like the frosting of a
Diamond, glistens beneath the glowing stars.
And the sparkles appease Jack Frost's callings.
IV
Passions flame is frozen, in a block of ice,
being kept alive only by a dying spark, a
dimming ember. Its last remaining flicker of hope!
But soon, the fading flame will be no more.
For now, it serves as forgotten memories,
which fall an unfair victim to time,
in a more cynical, disheartening season.
Where wintry workings advance so simply.
Desire means so little now. The beauty
of what was once such a delicate art, now
disillusioned at the jealous form of envy.
Thus bringing the misfortunate defeat, of
a once favourable language; known to all.
Here dies the elegance of romance.
V
For now, on the ice the pixies skate, around this
frozen flame. Their chilling ways, and eventful
plays, are nothing short of shocking.
Jack Frost watches from his throne, and his
smile is spreading fast. For now he knows his
work is done, and the winter's here at last.
