Dead Fall

A shadow falls sufficiently grand
Past the hour hand of grandfather clock.
Twirling mustache as the snow is curled
Above his lips so soft and surreal
His eyes glint with the embers, soft,
Glowing, incredulous light of wisdom.

The power of his shadow so strong
Grasps a heart long left hollow
In a fever of devotion and wanting
Asks for the shadow to choke the heart.

Grasping, panting, tightening, gasping
The air flow slows as the darkness closes
And the clock’s final tick so grand
Sounds to end a life in the slow falling snow.