Graves Are Made to Waltz On

Tunes fainter on winds waywarder than others

When from the frozen swamp the evil crystals glow,

Lure us to our disowned deep-buried banished brothers,

Our dark-souled scowling brothers,

Who pound warm fists against their jails of snow.

Waltz with decorum-one step lax or lacking,

© One slip on our own graves of many deaths ago,

Betrays us: ever nearer the tune of tough ice cracking,

The hungry snarl of cracking,

And hands reach out to drag us down below.