The world's not about to end

The sheen of snow in spring belies the times,
Suggestion of an armageddon bright.
As seen in whorls of ice the same as rhymes
Apocalyptic fantasies of night.

In wind that whistles whispers from afar
I fall against opacity of fate.
Streaming from a gelid, distant star
Conveyèd by the harbingers of late.

The furnace of the soul berates the chill
Of angels dark and demons bearing jewels.
It silent rises 'gainst the frosted hill
To climb the mount despite the wail of fools.

Night sky that seems to cry "The end is near"
Quiets when the morn dissolves its fear.