Here lies the desolate love

of a father, mother, sister

turned to ash,

and my broken heart ripped

from its rusted cage.

I watch as their bones corrode

beneath sheets of ice,

and their names gently blanketed

by falling snow.

February morning gives rise

to a beautiful veil of frost

glowing in halos of sunlight.

Sharp winds steal my breath

and cut like crystal daggers in my lungs.

White-mist hangs in the air

as I brush aside the snow

and read the hollow words

from your forsaken scripture,

engraved in obelisk ruins.

And in the ancient runes

of the black-leather book,

kept safely in your mausoleum walls

from days long forgotten,

written in ink-blood

are imaginary truths

that will not save you

at the iron gates of oblivion

when the winter Reaper comes

to imprison the dead.