Nov 9, 2019
Winter
The trees are bones. Thin webs stripped of flesh– torn from fibers of muscle. Their discarded carcasses left at their feet. It is not the wind that tantalizes my tongue, nor the cold that pokes my cheeks. Rise into the emptiness. Into the cold. Into the darkness of sleep. Lulled. Lulled. Lulled. My mind is pulled back to skeletons; to lapses in memory; to the similarities of conclusions and dreams. And then silence: Solid and soft. Fragile as drips of ice. Do my thoughts rest now, or has my mind frozen over?
