Within The House Of Snow

Emerging from the sands of time like forming dunes are the shoes in search for feet  to call their own, and the ferns of all colors emerge from between the laces and allow critters of all walks of the earth to partake.

Crooked old noses leak houses of snow and the sands of time are in motion in they as well. We unscrew the light-bulbs and shove towels under the doors. We light candles and hold them to the ceilings, gazing in awe at the little droplets descending almost as a telling of the chaos of all things, until the ceiling is no more and we are exposed again to the night sky and all of its secrets.

Confetti finds its way out of our ears, our eyes, our pores, our souls, to blow away and form tiny silhouettes in the night sky, only to be seen with it's colors and textures when in quarrel with the fire on your fingers, exposing the bone and it's mortality.

Clouds veil the infinite suns (but spots to we, the lapses of knowledge), and the blizzard from the crooked old noses returns to us what the candle had manipulated.

A judgement life walking about in the gardens of the town, hands in it's pockets, it's face under it's shadowing hat, it's eyes at it's shoes, is the one who paints the skies of the man under the garden bench. A blood red moon gobbles them up like a crazed bear in a rotten pumpkin patch, ripe with the dung beetles and mud toads moving about without comprehension. But there are others who float about in the plasma clouds, and embrace the inevitable riding of the rail, back down to the flaming fly, being consumed by the mold within our being.

The mountains arise at the snap of a finger and grow ears and eyes, for which to hear and see the direction of their progress, and in doing so gaze upon the plasma clouds and see many skulls and many polished feet and melted plastic on glass, thickening the atmosphere.

The dynamite shapes the mountain and the little pyromaniacs gaze out onto their empire, confident that the stars will have it all back to themselves again in due time, but the ticking of the clock that points towards this shining and void return is but a metronome, refining the thickening stench of the sulfur in our hells by tuning it like a pipe organ of some magnificent magnitude.

The ocean sucks up the moon and births from its bosom the sun and the stars are tucked behind our sphere again. The houses of snow melts and the townspeople bathe and gossip in the steaming waters, as if back at the hight of the roman empire. The goblin and his angel smile and begin digging.