With all due recognition to Percy Bysshe Shelley

I spied a mask in shreds of snow
upon a desolate plain of ice
with a black blobs mirrored below
a layer of white, mere fragments sufficed
to relay the anger, hatred, and insight
that must have lain behind those patterns,
and to my own mind, questionly echoes frighteningly
strong of memories whispered in tatters
opening to them both my soul and eyes
"Evil must be punished, even in the face
of Armageddon, in this I shall not compromise!"

But blowing across the Anarctic space
fragments of the mask's visage lies
forgotten and ignored since the bearer's demise

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