Vague words,
shortest lived residue
comes crawling
from eyes,
reenivisioning nothing
back to the start.
You can’t see
why ice has gathered
in its clear form.
You won’t speak
to your broken soul
hidden under dust.
Your attention,
scattered within cold,
burning winds,
tastes your skin,
bites your tongue,
drives speech
into corners.
It’s where you quake,
where you won’t wake
from your nightmare
living on the inside.
A small world
where you can remain
dining on what
keeps you dying.
Leave a Reply