UnPoetia:Cross of Snow

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.