The lake ripples in the sunken moonlight,
and the icy-blue fingertips of winter's night
caress the scattered stars resting upon
a hero's shoulders
The old man's feet wrestle the years
as the floor-tiles grow weary,
cold and brittle
like tree branches after a storm
Every step behind the windows,
caught in the mirror
one side white-hot, like molded steel
the other laid bare; a wasteland of snow
and a promise of days to come
A vision of intemperate times,
swept across a living-room floor;
dreams of fire and ice,
left in the recesses of the mind,
and cradled in the heart.
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