The Poet to the Silver Light

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
In the silver light of the winter afternoon
Those who are not sleeping will be nodding soon
Into gray twilight of the fading, evening year
Not yet a sleep of reason, but a sleep of fear

In the rising silver of the winter's graysome morn
The mists foretold a coming, the fogs were all forsworn
And in the scattered rays of a northward sliding sun
One could mistake a battle lost, for a battle won

But the veils in veiling all foretold a coming storm
A squall of coldness coming, a wind in perfect form
A warmness only made for the accidental few
With the rising sun's ascent the fog only grew;

It gathered to a greatness in a muted silver light
As long as all is vagueness, perhaps we'll be alright
The solstice swiftly coming, borne but the interlude
Of the winter's darkness ready to intrude

But maybe we won't see it, perhaps the world will warm
Perhaps by chance escape this the perfect storm
But neither fate nor loophole or plead of insanity
Can avert this new direction, this enshrouded destiny.

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