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.