Who is there to ask

for definitions not yet discovered

A lonely imagination

pausing to look out upon darkest night

What layers comprise

perfection in form or grace or sound

Spirit of winter

Instruments built from ice of frozen lakes

cut from their melancholy depths

Are there screams

echoing from the drawings to surface

Is there acquiescence

breathless upon a reluctant entrance

And why forever

is it never quite good enough to placate

Our perpetual longing

like Alcyon waiting for Ceyx