Jon Of The Snow And The Nothing He Knew

All the ill homes ditching the hearth of a quiet in favor of a dust up at sundown.
chemicals in the frost,  digging into limp houses and chunneling the bedrock of an underneath as barren as the up above. As only a fairy tale can scar a blemish.

Optical violets
conspire to blossom in your benighted tomb
should you live there, with all the irony at your disposal
to lay siege to your impregnable-
Mice.
They know all about the clock
but nothing of the gears…
too busy easy eating charms from a ghost hand
in a parlor of lost boys. too busy slipping into cauldrons
of bespoke misadventures and
terminal revivals.

You bloat the river
where a crick would do.
Your fathoms blast the narrows
of your endless beseech. You implore that the world
should come apart more gently.
That it should sleep when the evening is callous
but long in the truth.

then dreams permit pearls that permit holes in theories.
And all the comely dawn
is vanquished by noon.

II

For nothing is as always
as another thing forgotten
when you meant too.