She should have considered crucifixion,

self induced thirst for the sorrow

of a Winter’s passing, the bleeding of snow

upon the higher ground of a December

day, the pitying cries of the lost and lonely

applauding her angelic face

and the darkness of spite, sacrificed, despotic

craving that lay in her bloated heart

and which would, in time

give birth as it ripped apart

to a black bulbous spider

eating away at the Winter Bride’s soul.

 

She should have considered crucifixion,

to go out as a martyr, to have the world

see her for all she was not, plain, homely,

the caring mother of all she surveyed

and the people’s champion,

December is but frost gone sour, December

is the agony of darkness thrust into the spotlight

and the winter’s tale told around

an empty log fire,

devoid of warmth and spit.

The Winter Bride, a scene that should

not be encouraged to live.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015