That inner limb was lacking

A sense of right and wrong

Like a pane without glass

A melody without a song

You possessed virtues of sorts,

Were, not by any means, all bad,

Yet I remember you only for

The conscience you never had

Fissures materialised where

The inner self was displayed

Skeletons in your cupboard

Facade aside, were betrayed

Good times...

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The thick ice on the pond is dimpled on its face:

The same snow that coated the field

Had landed on the frozen pool to yield

To ice its fragile beauty and feather grace

As dents

Body gone, only the skeleton of the snow is left:

The same snow that covered all around

Has lost its substance to the earthy mound

But dull white bones still haunt Spring's heft

As wraiths

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