The winter breezes
no longer keeps pace.
A fault, not of you and me.
But in the peacock’s mischief
and stagnant dances.
Snared under withered moons,
and marching papers.
The staircase goes
on without end.
Yet, many pledge
themselves there one day.
In some places, the curtains
have never been raised.
And the dresses never vibrate
with love, affection
and midnight passion.
This is the cold season,
even the cats follow
the procession.
Strict appearance
and lazy atoms,
the orders of the day.
A Wandering Poet 