Violet rose petals
clutched in a death-grip
deep within the reservoirs
of musty old books
and dirty laundry,
yet focused like a laser,
the pathos represented by the reprehensible
sigil marking the dreaded forehead
headed for the River Styx.
Still, fire-breathing marshmallows
wrap their seedy sinews
round the last superego
beckoning hell to fell the Tree
and none will ever see the snow fall again.
Thanks a lot, Heraclitus…