With a frozen movement,
For upon the face of faces
There is astonishment
For what is above her.
A little round cap
Orange in hue,
And shaded only by the coming evening.
She roams, with a piercing step
To the snow beneath her folded hands
That each sway past her side.
And, within that cap,
A long feather pokes out
Like a remaining twig upon the most ancient tree
That fell in one lonely forest.
Secrets are planted in her eyes
For what that feather marks
Itself, as what might represent a shadowy past
That glistens over her future, like gleaming moonlight.
She will dance with it,
Bathe with it,
And nestle it, with kisses so heavy
On the lips meant for another’s mouth.
Like love being red,
Of a heart known to be dead,
Depression is but a symbol
To a many words written and said.