UnPoetia:Cross of Snow
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- Scattering across the floor at night,
- A glass of milk--the fruit of a cow now dead--
- Eerily creeps along the carpet as I turn my head
- That gelid material of coruscating light.
- Here in this room it shattered and poured its white
- Ne'er through imbibing of lips was led
- To its digestion; nor can these books be read
- Whose text is now soaked in ambrosia most benedight.
- I have heard of a merchant in the distant West
- That, age-defying, in his facial ravines
- Peddles some "cross of snow" from his side.
- Such is the beverage I partook through my breast
- For eighteen years, through all the drunken scenes
- And sessions, prating since the day I died.