• Snow falls
    silent, a thousand dying doves,
    the spirits of angels fallen from grace
    are no less graceful for decline.

    Present
    yet distant, through picture window barrier
    which separates two worlds.
    I, standing in the dark where the moonlight cannot fall;
    Nothing ever seemed so real.

    Strange,
    so strange, I pressed my face to the pane
    yearning for the kiss of the cold.
    Like a lion leans upon the iron gate
    for sunlight to briefly grace his mane.

    So, Prophet, interpret my dream.
    Is there truth found in scrying the ice?
    Ages-old Bibles told me nothing of this,
    but heaven is the moonlight
    which dances on the snowfall and the ice.