When chaos falls like snow, flakes of blades

An’ not of fluff: fill lakes with tears and blood.

Defeated loved ones collect that bill,

sent by the stamping boots above. Surely before the curtain fell;

the life they scampered was worth a hoot? Maybe a hug in the damp?

Yes, it was not as beautiful as a dove, but it will do;

for at least it was their hill climbed, and

their beast that played the fresh kill at the top: for victory.

Then, came the tumbling down through the bark of pain,

to that same end at the lake, where some rest in pride

an’ not fret and worry of a dame in distress.