IN SHATTERED RIDDLES
Greed is born of hunger.
Hunger, born of emptiness.
Emptiness, just a misinterpretation
Of the void.
This breath:
The simplest prayer.
An acquired silence,
Acquainted with all sorrows.
Horror has the best stories.
Hell has all the heroes,
Heaven: countless promises of light,
The cold dark of utter depth.
Sere the serried flow,
The rattled grains of ice rain.
All rivers begin in heaven,
Always falling, falling.
In shattered riddles
The endless winter.
Fleet our bones,
Sleet our marrow,
Gristle our cold souls,
Holding on.
We skim and glide,
Moonlight on snow.
A north wind tatters memory
That fragments and alludes
To another now.
As when those dreams of falling
Bring us suddenly awake
In dark silence,
A moment nameless
And wondering.
The fast skimmed cloud,
The fast glide of tattered light.
Scent of snow, scent of ice.
Year on year the small cold accumulates:
A speeding summer cannot melt it all.
In sunless places grows our glacial calm
That will outrun us with its final weight,
Slow grinding, a digestion of alternatives,
Downhill to the oceanic, a new beyond,
Unloosed, unbridled, unbodied.
—-
simonhlilly 
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