Bone Cold

The outside blackness does not stare,
It simply waits, with its bone cold.
The bridal net it wears may mock,
Its face a fair and polished glass,
But I am old, and bone tired...

The multitude may never pass,
The blue street blocked, the clouds mired.
A chill from All-ways Death grips me,
Its patron saint sat by the church:
A suicide from 1410.

Whatever beasts may roam and lurch,
What scares one more, than teeth or men,
Is outside blackness cast like stone.
The hours by this small window
Are as an embrace: cold, and slow.