winter window pane
frosts her name
a ghost to roost
no thing to blame
a dead bouquet
the dusty sill
and in the den
the music ends
and cemetary
silence lends
heavy lidded quilted chance
to stray to sleep
a dream to dance
a feudal pas
the freshly waltz
within a floating
castles walls
and other trite
and fairy things
so often dreams
will pretend
until beyond the comprehend
shatters them to wake again
to swipe the sleep
and stumble in
the kitchen coffee
brewed and cooled
on the table
same old news
empty pages
every book
walking sidewalks
killing time
every word a worm
bored in his mind
but of her the pen
is wont to find
the rhyme
the reason
nay the time
to bury them in
a paper tome.

And close the lid.