Beyond the Veil

Winter is not a season, for season implies a passing;

A summer wherein to warm the soul, a spring therein for hope to grow.

Winter is not a season, a cool hiatus in the tumult of life;

A brief wayside stop on the journey of living.



No, winter is the cold beyond the veil.

The icy beck that flows through these once hallowed halls.

An absence of love in the ruins of my heart.

Winter is the howling wind in the cathedral of my mind.

The desolation of a ground held sacred.



For if summer is love and laughter,

And spring joyous with youth,

Then winter is Death in all its frozen glory.

The endless void beyond that veil;

Of emptiness and nothingness. 



With skeletal remains and funeral masks,

Winter is the grieving of husbands and widowed wives,

The burying of a child and the tears that fall thereafter.

Winter is our loved ones struggling in bitter night.



Lost beyond the veil, in Death’s endless depths,

Where soulless eyes reach for broken hearts,

Where cracked lips breathe whispered words,

And blistered hands hold shattered dreams.

Far from hope, far from home, lost in the cold we roam.



For beyond Death’s veil is naught but winter,

And in the lifeless domain of this Destroyer,

We are but playthings to the Prince Eternal,

The one to whom winter is not a season, but an occupation.

Death, He calls us all, in His own time;

And nary a one refuses.