Before hath shorn

Of heartache born

And all will scorn

For thou art torn

 

Notes on the Windigo

Do you know the Windigo?

A beast so low

ye ought to know his plight.

He hath no ally in the depth of the night,

the sole locale in which he may reside.

He dares not possess, or love, or feel;

for all that he touches is made to kneel

Before death

 

Is there hope for the Windigo?

Can he ever be a man who can know

The highs and lows of the world of light.

Where men do wonders whomever they might

And pleasure and fate are naught to be scarce

And love

And fear

And women art doves

And men art sheer

Yet the joined overcome the strange, sad hearse

Of death

 

 

Wherefore then is the Windigo

The man so low that all should know?

What’s the reason of his permeance

In the lives of men and the legends since

Perhaps there can be made some form of sense

Though what you have’s not what you wish

At least you have it, and naught purposelessness

And death

 

Now gone is the Windigo

And the poorest curse to overflow

Where he once was, lies now by chance

An image of you, if you take a glance

For what you’ve lost is rent in pieces

Your love

Your fear

Your soul has vanished to above

Your devil smiles from ear to ear

And all you make are masterpieces

For death