Lord Winter

	Like Luther's army
	And Abel's brother
	I woke to find
	Only to smother
	An angel fat
	At Satan's feast
	Where falsehood, childhood
	And loneliness ceased.
	Delicate like grief
	I am rapist, well-healed
	Double the echo of silence
	Like a dusty dead rose.
	The dead of it -
	The dread of it
	The
	dead
	of it -
	The
	dread
	of it
	Contaminate with neglect
	Every little heart eventually ends up broken
	Shrouded by fog, and hidden by fear.
	Asleep in this stumble of autumn
	The pain was Calvary
	Our living on
	Empty.