Post-Neology

The old shepherd stretches,
a cloudy grunt erupting,
From radiating lips,
Like a steam powered cigarette.
Beaded Snow,
undertoe crunches,
Grinding powder,
Down,
into hidden muddy earth.
Sun glinting off branches,
Not yet ice-ridden,
Crosses his face,
summoning a silent smile.
But when the light hides,
Cumulonimbusly,
His nature reminds:

It’s time.

Spring cold still bites,
But the freezing,
doesn’t hold,
Him back from,
Setting himself,
in pursuit of purpose,
eternally free.
At breakneck speed.
Like lightning,
His will unleashed:
Scouring his adjacency,
For disorder demanding,
Thundering guidance.
Wild beasts to a wild beat,
Stampeding.
Hopeful feathered fears take,
Flight out of fright,
And yet,
His patriarchal passion,
keeps him yearning,
burning to,
Protect a saved prisoner.

Protests fall on,
ears deafened,
by winter winds,
Anacronistic,
Refreezing time,
and hearts alike:
No flock will follow,
Towards tomorrow’s snows.