empires of alaska

Dirae Di over a frozen tundra.  The clock ticks closer to colder skies.  Build the fire high.  Some white covered mountains and long crystalline fields await.  The leaves deceive. A warm breeze on an otherwise chilly morn.  But build the fires because there is an awaiting storm.  Of winter.  Of cloudy skies.  No water moves.  Patterns of the ice cave.  A single sheet of icy rain.  This street is warm (for now).   Sincto Sin.  We all sit by the bon fires.  Escaping reality a little on an autumnal night.  We've reached twilight of the fading summer sun.  All blues faded and gone.  It's about the rustication and burnt embers.  The slow moon to follow.  Dirt and decaying leaves.  Rotting fields of pumpkins and gourds.  The last of the burning sunfire makes it crumble and puss.  All gone into putridity.  All covered over and frozen in time.  The act of death stopped by negative degrees.  Dominai.  Seek shelter in the light of the colored glass windows.  Smell the incense.  Walk the strange hued hallways.  Requiem.  Day for a night.  A long night of winter's sleep.  We see through your bright orb into the future.  From our smoldering logs up into the air on the strangling smoke, we rise and see from autumn, the coming days of dying.  All things die.  One after another.  People do, too.  They fall and leave behind the wild pains of inescapable, irrational human suffering.  We suffer to live.  In a bleak house on a bleak snow laden night, we see our box.  Snowshoes, skis, sleds, skates.  Piled on the floor.  Memories of what it used to be.  Pine trees starring into the dark night of winter.  These were my witnesses.  And time moved forward.  Time is gone.