UnPoetia:Cross of Snow

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Unpoetia logo Poetry for people who hate poetry
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.
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