Gothic Winter

In the pale evening frost
she comes to me
her words of sleet
a cloak to my body
her eyes, falling black snow
upon the hearth of my soul

Her polar kiss
enduring the superspheres
like an iceblock of time
melting into eternity

She is a youthfull evening rose
wailing in a mud-garden
her freezing beauty dispersing
the commerce of deceptive fragrances

From the underworld
where emptiness clutches at her roots
from the netherworld
there ghost hands pushing up her shoots

Thickened blue ring clouds
form the wreath for her head
beginning to rain down
dark crystals on her hair...

...and her smile, silvery
like the crescent moon
through the forks of winter trees......