Poetry

In blood and grass
lies the snowman.
 
I must not look at it twice
after the spring melt.
 
The black magic has failed.
A mooned night will―
not reflect the real intent
of song's proxy in dark.
 
A lethal mix of twilight
and solstice, squats in gloom
to listen the surrender
of shine.
 
The glorious name, ultimately
drops the hint,
of profanity, written on wall.