Cobwebs-Broken

Standing around like road signs in the snow, most pointing upwards shouting, stop, don't go others like traffic-cones, kicked-over cobwebs-broken with names lichen ochre read—tread no further - hold on to your time let Sunday bells chime in late wintertime. Let the migration of youth turn south first let it be sun-bleached by some 30000 days immersed. And then rise like a helium balloon break from that shadow, from its ankles, hewn then stand tall amongst these headstones entombed. Let crypts of snow in your soul be-exhumed mingle on the ivy that's always green, and-congeal-to a stop-sign evergreen.