Postscripts
All the fools' talents
end up selling
frozen hearts to the ghosts
befriending the winter souls
that howl to the westering night
but hear not the call
of the warm-spell arriving
at the war-horn's sounding.
That's the right word
of Thursday's doom.
Renegade elves
run now behind
the gleam of fire refracted
in gloomy halls between
the finest scheduled lines
scored by the tide-lord.
Talented elf-lords
always buy the brightest
banners to mark the times
until the closing of the night
and melting of the frost-right.
Clearly the spring is running.
On Saturday the toll
sits shrouded for tomorrow.