The winter-fair is almost done,
The vent of woe near ended,
Our tales all gone, wholly spent and all expended
Go forth, now
Blessed in new armor:
Resist anew the call from him
Who sits in court,
Across the rusty way.
He beckons you,
With smiles, yes:
They are but wrinkles on a cenotaph,
For his jaws are louvered shut…
Until he has you at his table!
Deny the cold-candled windows tall,
No sound behind them but
Sericate rustles in a muffle of dust,
Sere the outcome, bleak the fall.
| Daniel A. Rabuzzi has had two novels, five short stories, and ten poems published since 2006, all in speculative genres. He studied folklore, anthropology, and history—and lived eight years in Norway, Germany, and France—which has influenced his writing. He lives in NYC with his artistic partner and spouse, the woodcarver Deborah A. Mills. For more, please see www.danielarabuzzi.com. |  |